Maybe you already know this — or maybe you’ve only felt it, quietly —
but love is a lot like the First Law of Thermodynamics.

It’s always there.
I don’t know if it ever truly gets created —
but I know one thing: it doesn’t get destroyed.
It only changes forms.

We think we’ve reached some kind of equilibrium in love —
because we share something with someone, because we understand them,
because we laugh at the same memes or cry during the same films.
But real connection? The kind that sets your nerves on fire?
That’s about frequency.
And not everyone vibrates at the same madness.

Growing up in an Indian household,
I was taught love with boundaries —
silent ones. Be obedient. Be useful.
Love wasn’t freely spoken, it was conditioned.
So I became a survivor. A good one.

But in the middle of dreaming about “my person,”
I lost hope.
Got caught in mind games, misread intentions, rejections.
I kept searching for someone who would match this intensity inside me —
but most?
Most people aren’t built to feel that deeply.
And I — I am built like the earth’s core.
All pressure, heat, and layers no one bothers to reach.
Around me? People barely go deeper than pencil lid graphite.

Even stars burn alone.
It takes a billion years for some to collide —
and when they do, they either become a nova
or quietly fade into a dwarf.

The sun is also a star. A lonely one.

So maybe it’s not about finding “the one.”
Maybe it’s about what we do with the love we have —
before it disappears into numbness.

We can transform it.
Into a hobby.
A home filled with plants and music.
Into adopting a child or rescuing a dog.
Into writing, or caretaking, or just becoming someone soft and strong at once.

Maybe, just maybe,
we don’t need someone to complete us.
Maybe we just need something
to carry our love into the world
before it becomes silence.