I don’t get how being in love could be so prioritized over everything else. Romanticized over the love of your friends, your family, yourself. Just because it has a different feel, a different name, shouldn’t all love be the same? Falling in love has turned into some kind of game. I like you, I like you, Do you like me? Made to feel that being single should mean making self-deprecating jokes like we’re ashamed. Desperate feelings, silent pleas, pick me, pick me, pick me. Everyone thinks we should be looking for some kind of fairytale. Slow motion, glass slipper, a freeze in time where you meet “the one.” But life isn’t always about magical moments and light, easy, fun. Real love is knowing that someone–friends, family, and lovers alike, accepts every part of you. Even the parts of you you deem flawed and undesirable. And they bring warmth to the pieces of you that you don’t let see the light That, I think, is what love is supposed to be like.