WHERE THE F*CK IS HE?

FEATURE | AROHA / LOVE

Written by Anonymous (she/her) | Contributing Writer

I thought love would arrive obviously, at first sight, like in movies with the sappy background music. One and done. Instead, trying to find love feels like rock bottom, and every time after that, rock bottom has its own rock bottom. Frustrating yet weirdly addictive. 

I've had several "boyfriends", if I can even call them that. Each felt like "the one" until suddenly he wasn't. I'd dive in headfirst, tell my friends this was different — then end up crying on my bathroom floor three months later over someone I realised I barely knew. Now I stay quiet. It saves me the shame of telling everyone it didn’t work out. It’s not that I don't know how to keep a man, I've just been burned too many times by the evil eye, right? 

Our generation doesn't date like our parents did. We swipe left on people because they're too short or give us the ick. We're desensitised to potential because we’re spoilt for choice. Endless matches, perfect bodies, and flawless relationships (only to the outside eye) on social media convince us there’s always someone better just around the corner. So we keep scrolling, ghosting, hoping for a new spark to fix us.

But chasing better means we rarely ask what we're actually looking for. What do I want in a partner? Do I recognise love when it's not wrapped in expectations? Am I seeking someone who complements me or just distracts me from my emptiness?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm addicted to the idea of love, not love itself. The butterflies, the creeping obsession, the thrill of a text back. But when those highs fade, what remains? Are they choosing me when it's difficult, not just when it's easy?

I've stayed in situationships that hurt more than comforted. I convinced myself that crumbs of affection were enough. Those red flags screamed ‘I can fix him’ rather than being warning signs. Everyone says love is patient and kind, but nobody mentions that love should feel safe; that love means consistency, not chaos. That you shouldn't erase yourself and your standards to be worthy of someone staying.

Yet we stay, because leaving means being alone, and in a world where worth depends on someone else's desire for you, being alone feels like failure. So we settle. We tell ourselves we're asking too much, that love should hurt a little. But maybe we're just afraid to admit we don't know how to love ourselves without someone reflecting it back.

The older I get, the more I see that knowing what you want matters as much as knowing who you want. Not superficially, like my current complicationship —tall, dark and handsome— but deeply: shared values, emotional intelligence, and aligned goals. Can they communicate? Grow through discomfort? Accept you as you are?

Love isn't just feeling. It's deciding to show up daily, even when life gets boring or stressful or completely unglamorous. If you don't know what you stand for, you'll lose yourself in people who don't either. So instead of obsessing over when he'll appear, I'm asking a different question: 

When will I show up for myself?

Maybe love starts with me. Maybe it’s becoming my own safe place. Maybe it's walking away when my heart knows it deserves better, even if being alone feels tough. Maybe love means having standards because I finally know my worth.

I haven't figured everything out. I still want a connection. I still get lonely. But being alone doesn't mean being empty. It can mean space, healing, and understanding who I am as a person. It brings the opportunity to become so rooted in myself that anyone who enters my life becomes an addition, not a lifeline.

So where is he?

I don't know. Maybe he's lost. Maybe he’s also working on himself. Maybe he isn't real. Sometimes I think, maybe he got hit by a bus. But I know this: I'm tired of outsourcing my happiness to someone who hasn't arrived. I'm done wasting energy on people who don't see me, hold me, or choose me completely.

For now, I choose to be alone. Not out of bitterness but out of strength. Because falling in love with myself might be the most powerful thing I could do. 

So here I am, the protagonist of my own love story, riding the train with sappy music flooding through my wired headphones—a slow crescendo rising to this very moment. 

Finally, I see it clearly: the person I’ve been waiting for all along has been me.