I was in Class XI when I first fell in love.

There was a rush when he looked at me. A spark, a flicker—something that felt infinite, even when it barely knew how to begin. But first love isn’t always gentle, and it certainly isn’t always right. Mine was neither. I thought it was everything, because back then, I didn’t know love could be more.

Still, I stayed.
Not because it was beautiful, but because I was afraid.

Every time it felt like he might leave, my mind whispered:
If not him, then who?

That question tethered me to a story long after the plot had unraveled. It made me trade peace for presence. It convinced me that if I lost him, I’d never find love again. So I stayed—for six years—until one day I realised I had outgrown the girl who first asked that question.

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The Second Time

Then came my second.

My favourite almost.

We were everything in slow motion. The kind of love that unspooled gently, like a Sunday morning in a city you’re learning to love. We had a rhythm, a potential, a softness that felt safe. But “almost” is a word that quietly breaks you. It tricks you into believing that “one day” will come—until it doesn’t.

We almost made love stay.
We almost had our shared playlists, our traditions, our peace.
We almost built something lasting.

“Distance, timing, breakdown, fighting
Silence, the train runs off its tracks…”
— Sad, Beautiful, Tragic (RED (Taylor’s Version), Taylor Swift)

When it ended, it didn’t break me. Not all at once, at least. It was the kind of ending that settles in gradually, like fog over a city you once called home. There was no betrayal, no grand disaster. Just the quiet knowing that we couldn’t carry on. I was tired—of loving people who didn’t stay. Of waiting for something I couldn’t name. Of wondering why love never felt like enough.

But if you ask me today, I’d still say we were close to something extraordinary.
Close, but not close enough.

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This Time Might Be Different

Now, maybe my third is here to stay.
Maybe he isn’t.

But for the first time, I won’t ask that old question again.
If not you, then who?

Because I’ve learned what that question does. It makes you stay longer than you should. It wraps fear in the illusion of loyalty. It makes you believe that love is scarce, when really—it’s abundant.

Love shows up in many forms, in many seasons—
Sometimes as a person, sometimes as a mirror.
Sometimes as you, choosing yourself after years of forgetting how.

I’ve learned that love isn’t just about who stays the longest.
Sometimes, it’s who teaches you how to leave.
Sometimes, it’s the quiet promise you make to yourself in the dark—
That next time, you’ll choose you first.

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Love Is Home

Love, as I’ve come to understand it, isn’t just the butterflies or the longing or the poetry. It’s not even just the safety or the stillness.

Love is how we slowly become ourselves in someone else’s presence.
It’s how we learn to rest.
How we remember the softness we’d tucked away.

Love is memory, timing, courage.
And sometimes, love is the lesson.

And maybe that’s why it blurs so closely into something else—home.

In my last blog, I wrote about home not being a place, but a feeling. And the more I think about it, the more I realise—home and love are the same thing. They evolve. They shift. They slip through your fingers if you’re not paying attention, only to return in unexpected forms.

A city. A friend. A morning spent in silence. Or someone’s laugh echoing through a kitchen full of light.

What a terrifyingly beautiful thing it is to find your home in a person.
To find love and belonging wrapped into the same soul.

But even if they don’t stay, the love does.
The lesson does.
The knowing that you can love again—differently, deeply, more wisely.

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And So…

You haven’t met all the people you’ll love.
And you haven’t met all the people who will love you.

So chin up, darling.
Love might just be around the corner.

And maybe this time—it won’t be tragic.
Maybe it’ll just be home.