By Jacob Collins

April 27, 2025

I’m 23, and I still haven’t had any real romantic experiences. Never been kissed, never been on a date, and never had someone confess their feelings for me. It’s kind of funny, really. Everyone around me seems to be figuring it out, finding their person, making memories, while I sit back and watch. At this point, when my mom asks if I’ve met anyone special, I always brush it off with the same old excuse—I’m just too busy. Work, school, life. It’s true, I am busy, but it’s not the full story.

I work a 9-to-5 job and I’m also a full-time student, so when I’m not working or studying, I’m just trying to catch up on rest. It’s a routine I’ve gotten used to, and it’s easy to hide behind the excuse of being busy. The truth is, though, I don’t think anyone really gets it. I tell myself I’m not looking for love, that it’ll happen when it happens, but deep down, I know it’s a lie. I long for it, maybe more than I even realize.

I just want someone who’ll treat me like I matter, someone who will look at me with that warmth in their eyes that makes everything feel like it’s going to be okay. I want someone who’ll hold me when things fall apart, someone who will just get it without me having to explain myself. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask, right? But it feels like that kind of love is just something out of reach for me.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m waiting for something that may never come. I see everyone else around me moving on, falling in love, experiencing things I’ve only ever dreamed about. And I’m just here, stuck in this loop of work and study, unable to even figure out where to start when it comes to love. I don’t want to sound bitter, but it’s hard not to feel like there’s something wrong with me, like maybe I’m not worthy of that kind of love.

It’s hard to admit, but I’m scared. Scared that maybe I’ll never find someone, or that the person I’ve been waiting for just doesn’t exist. And every time I say I’m fine, that I’m okay with being alone, I can’t help but feel like I’m lying to myself. The longing is there, quietly eating away at me, and I don’t know how to make it stop.

I know I’m young, and there’s time, but sometimes it feels like time is running out, like I’m missing out on something everyone else seems to have figured out. So I wait, holding onto the hope that one day, maybe, someone will come along who’ll make everything make sense. Until then, I’ll just keep pretending that I’m fine.