One sided shit

I’ve never truly experienced love in its entirety. It has always felt one-sided, with everything coming from my end — the effort, the feelings, the emotions. I’ve poured so much of myself into it, but it always seemed like I was the only one giving.

Why can’t I have feelings?

Why is it that I can’t seem to have feelings, or, if I do, they never seem to be returned? It’s like no matter how hard I try, my emotions never reach you. Are they not warm enough to melt your walls? Do you see them as nothing more than a fleeting infatuation that doesn’t deserve your attention? Why does it feel like everyone else is allowed to fall in love, to experience the joy of being seen and cherished, but when it comes to me, it feels like it’s somehow forbidden?

What is that all about? Why is my heart met with such indifference, while others get to bask in the warmth of mutual affection? I can’t help but wonder if I’m just too much — too much to handle, too much to give, too much to hope for. Maybe if I could just turn it off, if I could somehow stop feeling, things would be simpler. If I could shut down all the emotions and become numb, maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with this pain. Maybe, just maybe, it would be easier to exist in the world without wanting anything from anyone.

But then again, who wants to live like that? To stop feeling altogether, to stop caring, to stop hoping for something more. It’s hard not to get frustrated when all you want is to be seen, to be understood, and to know that the love you feel isn’t a burden, but something worth sharing. Maybe I should just stop being vulnerable, stop risking my heart altogether. Maybe that would save me the disappointment, the confusion, the endless questioning. But deep down, I know I can’t. Because as much as it hurts, feeling is still better than not feeling at all.

Why settle for less?

I know there’s always someone out there who seems better than me, to you. I can be better, too. I know that, but why can’t you see it? Why can’t you believe that I have the potential to be more than what I am right now? It feels like I’m always falling short, like there’s something missing, and no matter how hard I try, it just doesn’t seem to be enough.

But I guess you’re right. What am I if not just another disappointment? Maybe I’m fooling myself thinking that things could be different. I know I’ve let you down before, and I don’t even blame you for feeling the way you do. Honestly, I don’t blame you for wanting more, for wanting someone who has their life together, someone who isn’t filled with all these insecurities and doubts. You deserve someone better than me—someone who can give you all the things I can’t.

I’m fully aware of all the flaws I carry. I know I’m not the ideal person, and I know that there are so many others out there who would treat you right, who would bring you happiness, who wouldn’t leave you questioning whether or not you’re worth it. The truth is, I probably don’t even deserve a chance, but here I am, holding on to whatever little hope I have left.

But deep down, I can’t help but wonder—why would you settle for me? Why would you settle for someone like me? Maybe you think you can fix me, or maybe you’re just afraid of being alone. But I don’t want you to settle, not when you deserve so much more. So go ahead, chase someone else, someone who can offer you everything I can’t. You deserve the best, and I know that I’m not it.

Am I your backup?

Do you only turn to me when everyone else leaves you in the cold? Am I just a backup, someone you rely on when there’s no one else around? Or am I simply your safety net, there to catch you when things fall apart? I sometimes wonder, am I only here to help you sort through your thoughts when no one else is listening? To comfort you when you’re feeling low, while you share your happiest moments with someone else?

I can’t help but feel like I’m just a backup. You know, I’m always here, always waiting. It’s as though I’ve become that person you turn to when you need something, but not the one you seek out when things are good. I wonder if, deep down, you know that I’ll stick around. I’ll wait for you, even when you go off looking for something, or someone, better. And if you ever find that perfect match, would you just toss me aside like I never mattered? Because sometimes it feels like that’s exactly what would happen.

I’m so dispensable, aren’t I? You’ll find someone who meets all your expectations, and I’ll fade into the background. It’s a hard truth to accept, but it feels like I’m always just a fallback. I’m here when you need me. And I wonder, does it even bother you that I’m always here, always waiting, always second choice?

Waiting is tiring?

Tell me, how long do I have to wait for you? Days, months, years? It doesn’t matter—I’m ready. I’ve got nothing else to hold on to in this hollow, empty life. Is it until I grow old and gray, waiting in vain? Or worse, until I die? If it’s the latter, maybe I should end it myself now. At least then, I’d die knowing that, at one point, I was an option for you. That I had a place in your heart, even if you never chose me.

But no, that’s not what fate has in store for me, is it? I’m still here. Still breathing, still surviving, just to watch you walk further and further away. Just to be alive enough to feel the hurt grow deeper every day. How long can one person carry this weight before they collapse under it? I don’t know, but I feel like I’m close. Someday, I know I’ll burst—this pain will become too much, too unbearable. What does it matter to you, though? Why should you care? Go on, live your life. When that day comes, when I’m no longer here, I hope you’ll clap at my funeral like you’re applauding the end of some tragic play.

You know what hurts the most? No matter what, I’m always here for you. You know that, don’t you? No matter what happens, even if the world turns its back on you, I’ll still be just one call away. Too available, aren’t I? That’s what I’ve become—someone who would drop everything just to be by your side. Someone who would run to you, no questions asked, whenever you needed me. And you? You treat me like I’m nothing. Like I don’t matter. And still, I stay.

I’ve given up my pride for you. Lowered myself time and again, begging for a love that you’ll never give. Is that why you’re so fearless about losing me? Because you know I’ll always come back? Maybe that’s my fault—for making it so easy, for showing you that no matter how much you hurt me, I’ll never leave.

But even as I say all this, I know I’d do it all again. I’d be there for you, always, because that’s who I am. Even if it destroys me.

Love is for others?

I see couples everywhere — walking hand in hand along the streets, whispering secrets only they understand, their laughter mingling with the noise of the world. They hold each other close, share warm hugs, rub noses like it’s the sweetest ritual, and sometimes, they kiss as if nothing else matters. It’s beautiful, yet it aches to watch. Every time I glance to my side and find no one there, it feels like a reminder — sharp and unrelenting.

It hurts. It hurts more than I can put into words. The emptiness feels louder when surrounded by love I can’t seem to reach. Will I ever have someone by my side? Will there ever be a hand that fits perfectly into mine, a shoulder that feels like home? Or am I destined to wander these streets alone forever, a ghost in a crowd of lovers?

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll walk aimlessly until fate decides to stop me — maybe a speeding car, a sudden crash, and then silence. And when they find me, what will they say? Perhaps the postmortem report will read something absurdly poetic: “Cause of death: an overdose of longing, driven by dangerously high levels of oxytocin.”

Maybe love isn’t for everyone. Maybe it’s just for others. Or maybe it’s waiting for me, somewhere out there, in a place I haven’t yet found. Until then, I’ll keep walking these streets, dreaming of a day when the ache might finally fade.

You don’t care about my feelings?

You don’t care about my feelings, do you? And why would you? Who am I to you, anyway? Just another face in the crowd, just another name that holds no weight in your world. I’m not important. My feelings? They’re even less so. They don’t matter to anyone—not even to me. All they’ve ever brought me is pain, this relentless ache that keeps gnawing at me. You’re free to have feelings for someone else; that’s your right. But me? No, I don’t deserve that luxury. What are feelings, anyway, if not a cruel joke? They’re just another form of stupidity, and I’ve been the biggest fool of them all.

I’m just a random guy, wandering aimlessly through a world where I don’t belong. I shouldn’t even be here. I wasn’t meant to exist in a place that seems to mock me with every breath I take. If I could, I’d rip the Amygdala from my brain and rid myself of these cursed emotions. Why should I feel anything for anyone? It’s better to feel nothing, to be numb, than to keep collecting feelings that will never mean anything to anyone but me. What’s the point of carrying a heart full of emotions if it’s only going to break under the weight of its own uselessness?

Why don’t you just end it for me? Go ahead. Stab me in the heart—pierce it through until it stops beating. Maybe then, maybe in that silence, I’ll finally be free of this torment. Maybe dead me won’t have feelings to drown in anymore. But even then, in those last fleeting moments, in those seven minutes, I know I’d still be searching for you. I’d reach out for you, even when I know you’d never reach back.

Why do I need to be always understanding?

Why is it always me who has to be understanding? Why can’t it be you, just for once? Why can’t you pause and step into my shoes, even if only briefly? Sometimes, I wonder if it ever occurs to you to ask me what I need, what I want, or what’s on my mind. Would it be so hard to sit with me, quietly, without distractions, and just hold my hand? To ask about my day, my dreams, or even my fears? It’s such a simple thing, yet it feels like too much to hope for.

Do you ever wonder what it’s like to be me? To carry all this weight and never be asked how it feels? I long for someone who truly listens, who lets me speak without interruption, without judgment, without rushing to turn the conversation back to themselves. I want to express myself honestly, to be candid about what I feel, and to be heard—not because you have to, but because you care. But do you care? Do you really care? Or am I just here to fill a role, to keep things running, to make your life easier?

Sometimes, it feels like I’m invisible unless I’m needed. Like I exist only to take care of you, to understand you, to make things right for you. But who takes care of me? Who sees me? Who understands me? These thoughts haunt me, leaving me wondering if I’ll ever feel truly known, truly valued, truly loved. It’s exhausting to always be the one giving, the one bending, the one sacrificing. I need someone to lean on too. Is that so much to ask?

What am I?

I would take care of you like no one else could. I would love you with all of my heart, unconditionally, without asking for much in return. But no, you don’t want that, do you? You chase after those who give you nothing but hollow promises and fleeting moments. You crave the attention of people who barely notice your worth, who come with glaring red flags, and then you come crying back to me when it all falls apart. Isn’t it ironic? Isn’t it a little pathetic?

I would give you everything—my time, my attention, my whole being. Every moment with you would be about making you feel valued, cherished, and understood. But that doesn’t seem to matter. You don’t want it from me. You want it from someone else, someone who doesn’t see you the way I do, someone who could never love you the way I would.

And just because I’m quiet, just because I don’t say much, doesn’t mean I don’t feel. I feel everything. I feel too much, in fact. I just keep it hidden. It’s easier that way, isn’t it? To pretend it doesn’t hurt, to pretend I’m okay. But the truth is, it all piles up inside me. Every rejection, every moment of being overlooked, every time I’m not enough for you—it stacks up like a weight I can’t shake off. And yet, here I am, still hoping, still waiting, still loving you.

What am I? Just a pathetic hopeless romantic in this empty world.

What do I ask for?

All I crave is a little bit of love, a touch of attention, and the sweetness of romance. Is that so much? I long to love someone sincerely, to pour my heart into a connection that feels genuine, deep, and real. I want to experience a love that transforms the mundane into something meaningful, where every shared glance and whispered word carries the weight of something beautiful.

I dream of finding someone who loves me back, someone who sees me, truly sees me, and cherishes what I have to give. I wish to experience love in its entirety—not in fragments, not in fleeting moments, but as something lasting and profound. Just once in my life, I want to know what it feels like to love and be loved without reservation.

I want to share simple joys and quiet moments. To go out on dates where we laugh until our faces hurt or sit in comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other’s presence. I want to bring her flowers, not just the ones bought from a shop, but delicate paper flowers folded with care, each one a piece of my heart. I want to listen to her stories, her thoughts, and her dreams, even if it takes all night. I want to bring her chocolates just because, bake for her on a whim, hold her close when words aren’t enough, kiss her forehead softly, and feel the world melt away in that embrace.

I wish to spend every waking moment knowing she’s near, sharing life’s beauty and its chaos with her. But then, I wonder, is it too much to ask? Is wanting to give so much love too overwhelming, too impossible, too much of a dream for someone like me?

Do I deserve nothing?

Yes, nothing. That’s exactly what I believe I deserve. Nothing good, nothing kind, nothing meaningful. I don’t deserve to be loved—least of all that. I don’t deserve to be the special person in someone’s life, the one they look for in a crowd or think about when they’re alone. All I deserve is pain, endless and constant, and reminders of how unworthy I am. Reminders that I don’t measure up, that I will never measure up. Something deep inside me feels shattered, broken in a way that can’t be repaired. And honestly, I wouldn’t even try to fix it. I don’t have the strength. I won’t chase love anymore because what’s the point? I won’t let anyone love me either. Even if someone does try, I’ll push them away. That’s all I’m good at anyway—pushing, running, shutting down. I’ll stay here, feeling numb, counting the days like they’re a burden I can’t quite put down. That’s what I deserve. That’s what I’ll settle for. Love isn’t meant for people like me, and I think I’ve finally come to terms with that bitter truth.

But the cruel thing about life is that it doesn’t let you keep promises like that, does it? These words, this vow to stay away from love—they’re hollow promises. Empty whispers I tell myself to feel like I have control. Because knowing me, I know exactly what will happen. I’ll fall in love again. With someone who doesn’t love me back. Someone who will take all that I have to give and leave me drained, empty. Someone who will treat me like I’m disposable, like I’m less than. And they’ll find someone better, someone who isn’t me, and they’ll leave. Just like always. And when that happens, all these feelings I’ve buried—the helplessness, the self-loathing, the unbearable ache—they’ll come flooding back, drowning me all over again. It’s a vicious cycle, one that I can’t seem to break, no matter how much I tell myself I’m done.

The irony is that this cycle never stops. It just keeps spinning, like some cruel joke I can’t escape. Nobody will love me. Nobody will want me. Nobody will light up when they see me or miss me when I’m gone. Nobody will care when I’m having a bad day, and nobody will look for me when I disappear. I know this because it’s always been that way. And yet, knowing all this, I still keep hoping. That’s the cruelest part of it all—this tiny, stubborn spark of hope that refuses to die, even when everything else in me feels like it’s already gone.

You know what hurts more?

It hurts the most when I am fully conscious of it, when I know deep down that they will never love me back. Yet, no matter how clearly I see this truth, I cannot stop myself from loving them. I keep pouring my heart and soul into them, hoping—perhaps foolishly—that my love alone could somehow bridge the gap. But all I do is exhaust myself. I give and give until there’s nothing left, and then, inevitably, they walk away. They leave me empty, drained, and utterly broken. And even after they’ve gone, I still can’t stop thinking about them. Their absence haunts me in ways I can’t escape. How am I supposed to move on when there was never anything real to hold onto in the first place? It wasn’t mutual, but it was real to me.

It takes years—years of struggling, of pretending, of convincing myself I’m okay—to finally start to move past that phase. Even then, it never really leaves me. Some part of it stays, buried but alive, ready to resurface when I least expect it. The smallest things—a song, a scent, a fleeting memory—can pull me right back into that pain. The past has this cruel way of lingering, of creeping into the present and making me feel miserable all over again. It’s like this endless cycle I can’t seem to break, a loop that plays on and on in the background of my life.

I feel like I’ll never truly be able to pick up all the broken pieces of myself. And worse, I can’t imagine finding someone who would be willing to see the mess I’ve become and still want to rebuild me. How could anyone love someone as flawed, as damaged, as pathetic as I feel right now? It’s a terrifying thought—that I might always be stuck in this place, endlessly yearning for something I’ll never have.

But maybe the real tragedy is that I don’t even know how to let go. My love for you feels like a chain, binding me to a ghost of something that never was. And yet, even with all this pain, some part of me still clings to the hope, however irrational, that it was worth it—because it came from a place that was genuine, even if it was not meant to be!