It’s been 935 days, but if I’m honest it’s probably more than that, since I’ve felt it — since I felt the all encompassing love that you only find with your person, your partner, your lover.

The type of love that is familiar and comforting, like coming home and curling up by the hearth on a cold winter’s night.

The type of love that wraps you up in a tight embrace, cradling you gently until every hurt melts away.

The type of love that freezes time because you’re so enamoured by that moment.

I yearn to be embraced by familiarity.

To feel the arms of the one I love envelope me like a safety blanket.

To hear the soothing tones of their voice settle my anxious heart. 

Some days I wonder if what we had was ever love at all.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt it that I wonder if it hit me in the face, would I recognise it?

I torture myself with these thoughts, questioning whether I would recognise love; whether I deserve love.

Most days I operate as if I’m whole but some days the hollow inside me threatens to pull me under. The craving to feel loved, to find a home in someone else’s soul, is insatiable but it is here I recoil, I pull back, I fear the worst, the internal torture repeats — maybe you’re just unlovable.

I try to convince myself that what we had was love — surely, there had to be traces of it.

My mind begins searching for moments where I might’ve felt pangs of love with you, and those that came before you.

Ctrl + f

I try to make sense of all of this, I try reminding myself what this kind of love feels like, but I draw a blank.

No results found.

The search continues.