Romantics. Naive, hopeful individuals who either wear their heart on their sleeves or quietly bury their dreams under pretenses of indifference.
Let me give you a shortcut to check whether you’re a part of these bright-eyed, sentimental society of idiots.
Every time we watch a movie, all we’re waiting for is the main character to get together with their love interest, while groaning at their stupid obliviousness and fangirling at their adorable meet-cutes and unrealistic special moments. And then as soon as they do, everything becomes just a little bit more boring, their world fading out a little to muted shades of grey.
(Or maybe that’s just me with my incredibly short attention span and constant need for excitement).
When I tell you we love love, we mean every kind of stereotype.
Slow burn, where two dumbasses would do anything for each other, but torture us with their inability to see what’s right in front of their face.
Fast-paced, reckless, whirlwind love, where they fall hard and fast, and all the chaos around them ceases to matter.
Enemies-to-lovers, the best kind, where their character arcs are incredible and banter incomparable.
Both chaotically evil/ perpetually closed off people with secrets galore, who finally let down their barriers and grudgingly let their uwu, marshmallow aspects shine through.
The lonely, always smiling class clowns who move around with heavy hearts until they discover someone who sees through their well-guarded front.
The grumpy one and the sunshine one, where icy cold exteriors melt like colourful popsicles on hot summer days, under the brightness of the other’s blindingly cheerful personality.
I could go on. But you get the drift.
We’re so exhaustingly drunk on the very concept of love itself.
It dances tantalisingly on the edges of our subconscious, drifts casually into our conversations, glances torturously at us on desolate days, intertwines itself in our personalities.
As someone once told me, I’m a simp for emotions. I think I’m a simp, period.
I swear to god, me fangirling is an everyday occurrence.
You fortunate, realistic, wonderfully oblivious people don’t understand the perils of being a hopeless romantic.
Even if we deny it, we’re constantly on the lookout for places we can encourage love; eagle eyed as we spot details and set up friends, beaming as our favourite characters finally get together, gasping at injustices, sobbing through sad romantic movies because THEY WERE IN LOVE AND IT’S NOT FAIR.
It’s emotions x100 Pro Max with me, I swear, I should come with a warning sign stuck to my forehead with the label “WARNING: incorrigible sucker for love.”
I write this curled up on the couch, Lauv’s ‘I Like Me Better’ playing gently, Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran and Halsey’s poetic magic waiting to be played next, casually brushing shoulders with my senti Hindi playlist, as I try to paint pictures with words, trying to do justice to epic tales of love, of magnificent feelings I’ve never felt.
Author: Ananya Chaure
Editor: Divya Agarwal