In the quest for someone who would see me as "their person," I realized I was blind to all the love poured out for me by the people around me. They poured until they couldn’t anymore—until their hearts shriveled like fruit in brine—and still, I asked for more. I forgot to see love in the little things. Even when I searched for love in every crook of the world, I forgot to look back and recognize all the kindness already extended. And I try to satisfy the craving, but my soul never seems to get enough. Often, all I see is what they couldn’t give. It’s like gasping for air when you already have enough because the fear of suffocation is more overwhelming and familiar. I leave their souls dry, having drained their spirits, exhausting their care—why? Even their entire existence. When will I see the deep-rooted affection shown to me, even by those who were never loved enough to give love? How can I believe someone likes me when I can’t seem to like myself?
