I kissed him goodbye as he walked me to my door, and we gave each other a final embrace before we parted ways forever. He turned and left before I could jam my keys in the lock, and I didn’t look back for fear that he wouldn’t. So, I kept my chin low, dragging heavy footsteps through the doorway and up the stairs to my room, where I collapsed into bed and cried until the night blurred into a memory.
I still remember how shamelessly I walked the halls of high school with heartbreak written all over me, spending class periods muffling my sobs in the bathroom stalls. That was the first time a boy had broken my heart.
And that was the first time I realized how much I could feel, and how little the world rewards it. Back then, caring came naturally. I didn’t know that someday we’d all be taught to hide it, to act unbothered and call it “maturity,” and to pretend we didn’t care as much as we did. I spent nights crying myself to sleep on the phone with friends who mistook my heartbreak for humor, hallway whispers trailing behind me until caring became my flaw, and I became the girl who felt too deeply for the world around her.
I had to get my act together, and I did. Once I had pieced my heart back together, I was determined not to let it fall apart again. So, I hid it from the world’s gaze, letting a sleeve veil what once sat proudly on my shoulder. I gave in to the “nonchalant epidemic,” desperate to be untouched and unbothered. Anything but too emotional.
Apathy became my armor. I stopped opening messages the second they lit up my screen, mastering the choreography of indifference. I let the hours stretch between replies while my fingers hovered over the keyboard, longing to speak but afraid to expose my wanting. I bit my tongue when life-changing news arrived, preserving the quiet illusion of mystery I’d so desperately wanted to build. I offered only crumbs of information, just enough for others to find their way to my story on their own. I stopped celebrating my birthday, showing up to gatherings, and posting on social media.
For a while, my nonexistence was almost thrilling. Watching the notifications pile up made me feel wanted, and keeping secrets in anticipation of revealing them for a dramatic reaction gave me a strange power. But little did I know, the cloud of mystery I thought I had formed was merely a bubble of suppressed emotions waiting to pop.
As I observe the world around me — where we play with people’s hearts instead of confessing feelings, where we mask desire for social connection by scrolling on our social media feeds — the rose-tinted glasses of indifference begin to fall.
How could I allow life to pass me by without letting the people I love know how much I care? I think back to all the times I finally let myself go out with friends, and the way their faces lit up. I remember the warmth in how they made me feel cherished and loved. Then I remember that I was once that girl who loved, without hesitation or limits.
Now, after several heartbreaks safely tucked away in my pocket, I’ve realized that caring has always been my greatest strength. Amidst a landscape that celebrates detachment and indifference, I choose the opposite. I choose to rebuild, harmonize, and love boldly. This love I give is precisely what makes people love me. Being a lover girl isn’t a weakness, but a quiet and all-encompassing superpower.
Maybe that first heartbreak was my initiation into the world of restraint, the moment I learned that feeling deeply could be embarrassing. But I never really knew how to stop.
I’ve always been the girl who cares too much, even when it’s inconvenient, and especially when it’s unfashionable. So here I remain, writing love letters and poetry dedicated to the memories of the people I once loved, singing my heart out to songs that remind me of a life I once had, and forever professing my feelings for those who have left an indelible mark because they left an imprint on me.
And that’s something I could never not care about.
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