I’m done chasing some twin-flame–destiny–written-in-the-stars nonsense, just someone how knows me. Who knows that love is in the little things. I’m chasing a man who remembers I love caramel macchiatos with a cheeky extra shot because life is exhausting and so am I. I don’t want galaxies colliding; I want good communication and a memory that holds on to me. Soulmates are cute in theory, but have you ever had someone text you “your playlist reminded me of you” and actually mean it? That’s the good stuff.
See, I’ve retired from chasing cosmic validation. I no longer want to meet someone and feel the fated connection of our past lives. I want someone who’s free this weekend and emotionally available in this life. Because what good is destiny if he can’t even text back during Mercury retrograde?
The truth is, I don’t believe in “one person out there made for me.” That’s not romantic; that’s stressful. Imagine thinking there’s one singular human across seven continents who fits you like a puzzle piece. This isn’t Hogwarts House Sorting. It’s just life, messy and unpredictable.
The love I crave isn’t grand or cosmic. It’s warm, familiar, full of tiny acknowledgments. It’s knowing my comfort food and my social battery limits. It’s someone who doesn’t need the stars to align to care; just WiFi and decency. Because honestly? Fate is overrated. Effort isn’t.
The myth of the “perfect person”.
We grew up on cinematic delusions. The Notebook’s rain scene. Disney duets. Bollywood soulmates doing full choreography. We were spoon-fed the myth that one person, The One, would swoop in, complete us, heal us, and probably also make us avocado toast. But, I’m already a full meal. I don’t need someone to be my missing fries.
Soulmate culture romanticises the unfinished self. It tells us we’re halves waiting to be wholes, that loneliness is a disease cured by proximity to another flawed human with a jawline and decent texting habits. But completion doesn’t come from another person; it comes from learning your own layers: messy, spicy, occasionally undercooked.
This whole idea of destiny is exhausting. What if my soulmate lives in rural Iceland with no WiFi and a vendetta against milk? What then? Do I just perish? I’m done waiting for divine timing. I want deliberate timing. Someone who shows up not because fate shoved them into my path but because they chose to walk there.
Gen Z has clocked it. We don’t crave cinematic perfection; we crave reciprocity. We’ve seen what “the one” looks like: spoiler, it’s usually emotionally unavailable and needs therapy. We don’t want twin flames that burn; we want slow burns that last.
So yes, I’m tapping out of the soulmate sweepstakes. Because while everyone else is out there manifesting “divine unions,” I just want someone who knows my standard Domino’s order and doesn’t judge me for it.
Give me consistency, not cosmic prophecies.
Here’s my new religion: consistency. Tell me my shoelace is untied before I eat the pavement, not that Co-Star said we shouldn’t talk today. Remember my schedule, not my birth chart. Love, for me, isn’t astrology. It’s attention.
The real intimacy lives in repetition. In remembering. The everyday devotion of noticing small things: how I always forget my umbrella, how I pause music mid-song to explain lyrics, how I can’t eat before presentations. That’s sacred. That’s the altar I want to pray at.
Anyone can talk about fate; not everyone will notice when your voice goes quiet mid-laugh. That’s where love hides: in the tiny check-ins, the quiet observation, the “you looked tired today, so I sent memes.”
Love is showing up when it’s boring. Love is remembering the mundane.
Forget cosmic prophecies. Give me daily rituals. Give me “good morning” texts that are boring but reliable. Give me soft reminders to drink water and harsher reminders to rest. Give me someone who doesn’t have to be my twin flame to feel like home, just someone whose consistency feels like sunlight through blinds.
Because the truth is, anyone can find your zodiac compatibility. But not everyone will notice that you like your soft-drinks like Limonata and Diet Coke because you secretly hate sweet things but can’t admit it out loud.
Romance lives in the mundane (and I’m not ashamed).
Romance isn’t grand gestures. You cannot pull up with a boom box outside my window everyday. You cannot plan elaborate dates all the time. And in the beginning, yes, the honeymoon phase. But forever? It’s grocery lists. It’s shared playlists. It’s saving the last bite because you know they love the crust. It’s someone texting “reach home and message me, don’t act smart.” It’s half-sarcastic, half-serious care disguised as annoyance.
I want the kind of love that’s cinematic in still frames like mismatched mugs, overwatered plants, arguing about whose turn it is to do the dishes and then doing them together anyway. I want the kind of love that doesn’t sparkle, it settles. Warmly. Kindly. Consistently.
Because “soulmates” are glossy. But small kindnesses? They’re grounding. Someone remembering your triggers. Someone quietly steering conversations away when they notice your anxiety twitch. Someone knowing your paper deadline before you even panic. That’s love in action.
I’m not ashamed of wanting the mundane. I think it’s rebellion. The world glamorises chaos like whirlwind romances, grand sacrifices, burning passion. I want peace. I want inside jokes that last longer than adrenaline. I want stability that doesn’t feel boring but safe.
How “bare minimum” is not actually bare, it’s the core.
We joke about “bare minimum men” because the bar is in hell’s basement, but let’s not forget that the things people call the bare minimum are actually everything. Listening. Remembering. Following through. These aren’t crumbs; they’re the cake.
Remembering my order isn’t superficial. It’s symbolic. It’s proof of presence. It means you were paying attention. That you cared enough to store tiny details about me in your messy brain. That you see me not as a concept but as a person with rituals, routines, and a specific caffeine-to-chaos ratio.
Love isn’t about extravagant effort once in a while. It’s about small effort every day. And yet, we treat attention like an accessory instead of the foundation. We’ve become so starved for basic decency that we confuse care with charity.
So no, the bare minimum isn’t boring. It’s everything. I don’t want you to buy me the moon. I want you to remember that I like my sandwich cut diagonally and my space respected. You don’t need to read my mind; just remember what I’ve said. We don’t want soulmates. We want partners who show their working.
Little things, big love.
I want someone who knows my general everyday chaos not because it’s deep, but because it’s deliberate. Because love isn’t the universe aligning, it’s two people aligning their 9 a.m. breakfast runs. It’s not “we were meant to be.” It’s “I choose you, even when I’m half-asleep and late.”
The little things aren’t background noise; they’re the melody. The coffee orders, the reminders, the small acts of noticing, they build a rhythm stronger than any cosmic prophecy ever could.
So no, I don’t want a soulmate. I want someone who’s present. Someone who remembers, listens, repeats, cares. Someone who knows I like my coffee strong because I’m not.
Because in the end, the universe is cool, but have you tried a partner who actually pays attention? That’s the kind of magic I’m addicted to.
And if all this resonated with the tired little romantic gremlin inside you, welcome home. This is exactly the kind of love philosophy we preach at Her Campus at MUJ: love as presence, not prophecy. Love as detail, not destiny. Love as warm socks, soft reminders, and someone who notices when your breathing changes mid-rant. This is Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ, signing off with the most un-cosmic, un-ethereal, beautifully mortal truth of all: choose someone who chooses you back.