love is dangerous?

I learned very early that love is dangerous.

Not because it hurt me directly, but because it hurt everyone around me.

I watched friendships break overnight.

I watched people change their tone, their priorities, their entire personalities for someone who promised forever and disappeared in a season.

I heard the word dhoka so many times that it stopped sounding like a warning and started sounding like fate.

So I built a version of myself that looked safe.

I became rude.

Not loud-rude. Not disrespectful.

Just… unreachable.

I mastered the art of short replies, sarcastic smiles, careless expressions. People assumed I didn’t care—and honestly, I let them. It was easier to be misunderstood than to be vulnerable in a world where vulnerability was treated like stupidity.

Being rude became a trend anyway.

Cold replies were confidence.

Not caring was power.

Attachment was labelled as weakness.

And I fit right in.

But here’s the truth no one noticed—

I was never rude by nature.

I was cautious by survival.

Because behind that careless face lived a girl who felt too much.

I noticed when someone’s tone changed.

I felt guilty even when I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I overthought words I never even spoke out loud.

And the idea of making someone feel small or unwanted haunted me more than my own pain.

I never wanted to hurt anyone.

I just didn’t want to be another story people tell with disappointment in their voice.

I never experienced love the way poets exaggerate it—no dramatic breakups, no midnight crying calls, no betrayal that came with proof.

And yet, I understood heartbreak deeply.

Because I lived in its surroundings.

I saw people beg to be chosen.

I saw loyalty become an option.

I saw promises turn into screenshots.

I saw love get casual, temporary, replaceable.

And somewhere along the way, love stopped being sacred.

It became entertainment.

A phase.

A backup plan.

People stopped asking “Is this love?”

They started asking “Is this worth my time right now?”

And I wondered—

When did love become so disposable?

I wanted something different, but I was scared to want it out loud.

I wanted a love that didn’t need to be hidden.

A love that didn’t make you feel anxious at night.

A love that didn’t require pretending to be someone else just to be chosen.

But wanting that kind of love in today’s world felt embarrassing.

So I pretended I didn’t want it at all.

I acted tough.

Unbothered.

Unavailable.

Because if I never expected love, it could never disappoint me.

Yet, there were moments—quiet ones—where my guard slipped.

When I saw someone choose the same person every day without getting bored.

When I saw respect without control.

When I saw care without conditions.

Those moments confused me.

They made me question whether love was really broken—or whether we just stopped protecting it.

Maybe love didn’t fail us.

Maybe we failed love.

By rushing it.

By testing it.

By treating people like options while craving to be someone’s priority.

And maybe my rudeness wasn’t strength.

Maybe it was grief for something I never even had.

Because deep down, I still believe in love.

Not the loud kind.

Not the dramatic kind.

But the quiet kind that feels like home.

The kind that doesn’t make you doubt yourself.

The kind that doesn’t ask you to become colder to survive.

I believe love should be normal again.

Not rare. Not scary. Not embarrassing.

Normal like trust.

Normal like honesty.

Normal like choosing one person without feeling trapped.

And maybe one day, when love feels safe again,

I won’t need to be rude anymore.

I’ll just be myself.

A girl who learned her lessons from others’ pain.

A girl who stayed kind in a world that rewarded coldness.

A girl who didn’t lose faith—just protected it quietly.

So yes,

we can normalise love again.

But first,

we have to stop pretending we don’t want it.

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