I don’t know if I have ever truly loved someone, but I do know that I have hurt myself deeply in the process of trying to be loved. That, I believe, is the greatest crime I have committed against myself.

The thought of being loved by someone became an obsession before I even realized it. The more I wanted it, the more I lost touch with who I was, molding myself into something I was not.

They say it is human to seek love, and I believe that to be true. But when that yearning turns into desperation, it becomes a vice. My quest for her love became exactly that—a form of desperation. In hindsight, I don’t even know if it was love. Perhaps I conflated the two: love and desperation.

This desperation led to unnecessary niceties, an unhealthy escape into pornography, endless hours of anime, relentless daydreaming, and a lack of focus on my own growth. Somehow, I came to believe that, like everyone else, I needed someone to love and someone to love me in return. When you internalize that belief, not having it feels like a recipe for suffering.

And that’s when desperation creeps in, prompting you to change—either who you are or how you perceive the world around you—just to make it happen.

Yet, the question lingers: should finding love be a prerequisite for a meaningful life? And if you don’t find it, does that mean your life is somehow lesser, unworthy? Should you look down on yourself, deem your existence meaningless, or alter reality just to make it true?

What is love?