I Didn’t Know Love Could Hurt This Much
I Didn’t Know Love Could Hurt This Much
BY:Ubaid
I used to believe love was soft.
Not the dramatic, cinematic kind you see in movies, but something steady—like sunlight slipping through curtains in the morning. Warm. Predictable. Safe. I thought love meant comfort, reassurance, and someone choosing you every single day without hesitation.
I didn’t know love could hurt this much.
I met Areeb on a random Tuesday at a mutual friend’s birthday dinner. I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I had built my life carefully—degree almost complete, a small circle of friends, dreams lined up like dominoes waiting to fall into place. Love felt like an optional chapter, not the main storyline.
But he had a way of making everything feel intentional. The way he listened. The way he remembered small details—how I hated coriander, how I loved rainy evenings, how I got anxious before presentations. He noticed me in ways no one ever had.
And that scared me a little.
In the beginning, everything felt effortless. We would talk until 3 a.m., sharing childhood memories and future plans. He told me he had never felt this understood before. I told him I had never felt this seen. It felt like we were building something rare, something that people spend years searching for.
I didn’t realize that sometimes the things that start beautifully can unravel quietly.
The first change was subtle. A missed call here. A delayed reply there. “I’ve just been busy,” he’d say, and I would nod, even when a small voice inside me whispered that something was different.
Love makes you justify what your intuition tries to warn you about.
I told myself I was overthinking. He still met me on weekends. He still held my hand in public. He still said, “I love you.” But the warmth in his voice felt thinner, like a blanket that no longer covered you fully.
One evening, while sitting across from him at our favorite café, I noticed the distance. Not physical distance—he was right there—but emotional distance. His eyes didn’t linger on mine the way they used to. His laughter felt forced. When I spoke about my day, he seemed distracted, glancing at his phone more than at me.
“Is everything okay?” I asked carefully.
“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” he replied quickly.
But love teaches you how to read between silences.
Days turned into weeks, and I found myself trying harder. Dressing the way he liked. Suppressing my overthinking so I wouldn’t “create problems.” Smiling even when I felt insecure. I became smaller in ways I didn’t notice at first.
That’s the dangerous thing about loving deeply—you start adjusting pieces of yourself without realizing you’re slowly disappearing.
The night everything broke wasn’t dramatic. There was no shouting. No shattered glass. Just honesty that came too late.
“I don’t think I feel the same anymore,” he said quietly, staring at the floor.
Those words didn’t just land. They crushed.
“What do you mean?” I asked, even though I understood perfectly.
“I care about you. I just… I don’t know. Something changed.”
Something changed.
As if love were a switch that could be flipped off.
I walked home that night feeling numb. The city lights blurred as tears refused to fall. It wasn’t just losing him that hurt. It was losing the future I had imagined. The late-night talks. The trips we planned. The version of myself who felt secure in someone’s arms.
I didn’t know love could hurt in layers.
It hurt my pride.
It hurt my confidence.
It hurt the part of me that believed I was enough.
For weeks, I replayed everything in my mind. Where did I go wrong? Was I too emotional? Too demanding? Not supportive enough? The questions were endless, and none of the answers brought comfort.
The hardest part wasn’t missing him. It was missing how I felt when he loved me.
But pain has a strange way of teaching you what comfort never could.
Slowly, I began to understand that love isn’t supposed to make you shrink. It isn’t supposed to make you question your worth. Real love doesn’t fade because it got “boring” or “complicated.” Real love grows through discomfort instead of escaping it.
I started rebuilding myself in small ways. I went back to journaling. I reconnected with friends I had neglected. I took long walks alone and allowed myself to cry without feeling weak.
Healing wasn’t linear. Some mornings, I felt strong and independent. Other nights, I stared at my phone, tempted to text him just to feel something familiar. But each time I resisted, I reclaimed a little piece of myself.
One day, I realized I had gone an entire afternoon without thinking about him. It felt like breathing after being underwater for too long.
That’s when I understood something important.
Love did hurt. But it wasn’t because love itself is cruel. It hurt because I gave it to someone who wasn’t ready to carry it.
I didn’t know love could hurt this much—but I also didn’t know I could survive it.
Now, when I think about that chapter of my life, I don’t just remember the pain. I remember the lesson: I am capable of loving deeply, fearlessly, and wholeheartedly. And that is not a weakness. It’s a strength.
The next time I love, I won’t make myself smaller to fit into someone else’s uncertainty. I won’t ignore my intuition to protect someone else’s comfort.
Because love should feel like sunlight again.
Warm.
Steady.
Safe.
And until it does, I’m learning to be that light for myself.
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