To be loved is to love
I grew up believing in happy endings. Fairytales taught me that princesses always found their prince, and that love was life’s ultimate reward. I was a hopeless romantic at heart—the type who giggled at the corniest movies, got giddy over cheesy characters, and teared up at romantic comedies. My friends would laugh at me, but I never minded. I was born with so much love to give that I thought it was impossible not to find it someday.
Unfortunately for me, I grew up in a generation where romantic love rarely came neatly packaged. It was messy and confusing, never quite like the movies where strangers stumble into a meet-cute and kiss in the rain, or the books where sworn enemies slowly turn into lovers. Instead, my generation gave us new ways to define, or avoid defining, love: situationships, talking stages, mutual understandings. There are so many labels that sometimes you lose track of what’s real.
I mostly had talking stages: the in-between phase where you’re not officially dating, but you’re constantly talking. It’s the Gen Z way of “almost dating” and sharing every detail of your day, messaging each other from morning until midnight, acting like a couple without ever claiming the title. But the truth is, these talking stages often stack up like unfinished chapters, leaving you with stories that never quite turn into something real. We tell ourselves to keep waiting, to keep hoping, but the waiting gets heavier. Each almost-love that slips away feels like proof that maybe we’re not meant for the happy endings we dreamed of. And yet, we keep holding on, because that’s what hopeless romantics do. We choose to believe, even when believing feels like the most foolish thing of all.
Dating apps and situationships are so prevalent that Gen Zs can no longer distinguish the genuine feeling of love. It would always be a question of, “Mahal ko ba talaga siya or ang cute lang kasi ng dog sa dating profile niya?” or “Mahal ko na ba siya or kinikilig lang ako kasi ngayon lang ako nakaranas ng bare minimum?” More often than not, we end up confusing love with the act of romanticizing someone to fit the version we wish they could be.
And then comes that bittersweet moment of watching your friends, one by one, find the love they deserve while you’re still stuck wondering, “When is it my turn?” For a long time, I equated being single with being alone—and, therefore, being lonely. On nights when the world grew still, I would lie awake and wonder if this was how the rest of my life would feel.
Once, I asked one of my best friends, Dasa, “If all my talking stages were in one room, who do you think I would run to?” She couldn’t give me an answer because deep down, she knew none of them really mattered to me.
Until one day, I met someone who felt different. Do you remember being a child, watching Disney movies, and whispering to yourself, “One day, I’ll find a prince like that”? To me, it was him. For the first time, it didn’t feel like just another talking stage. In the past, every conversation felt like a chore, like a performance where I had to guard my heart. I was always cautious, always bracing for the moment someone would leave. But with him, it felt almost effortless—like I could finally exhale.
We had only known each other for two days, yet it felt like we’d already known each other for years. Around him, I didn’t feel the need to perform or filter myself. At my most genuine state, I was enough.
I knew I was in trouble when I’d catch myself glancing at the clock during class, silently willing the minutes to move faster so that I could see him again. During my shift at the org booth, I’d grow restless, itching for the moment I could wander over to his booth and tell him another ridiculous jejemon reference. He would roll his eyes, pretend to find it corny, but there was always that quiet smile tugging at his lips.
For those fleeting days, it felt magical, like we had stumbled into something rare. But, like every other situationship, it ended. Another talking stage faded into silence. Another almost-love story, unfinished.
Like me, he wasn’t looking for a serious relationship; just someone to talk to, someone to share the quiet, idle hours with. And maybe that’s what made it hurt more. Because when it ended, he didn’t leave in anger or cruelty. He ended it with kindness, with words so gentle they left no room for bitterness. How could I hate him? He made me feel more loved in a single week than others managed in months. It left me wondering how the sweetest words could leave the sharpest ache.
I couldn’t help but wonder why we get so attached to people we’ve only known for such a short time. In my quiet moments, I’d catch myself thinking, “Maybe love just isn’t for me.” Other times, I’d try to convince myself, “I’m young, there are plenty of fish in the sea.” It felt like an endless tug-of-war between wanting to give up and wanting to believe.
For a while, I was bitter. I questioned why I even met him if we weren’t meant to last. I spent days ranting to my friends, insisting it was unfair. What hurt me most was that I poured my heart into someone only for it to be left behind, as if it didn’t matter.
In the end, I didn’t choose either despair or denial. Looking back now, I see it more clearly: I have always been full of love, and love has always been mine to keep.
I realize now that love doesn’t only come romantically. Love is true, genuine and abundant, and it flows through the people around me. It feels a little cringeworthy to think of how many tears I shed over a one-week talking stage, but I couldn’t be more thankful for it. Because in those tears, I discovered just how loved I already was.
I’m thankful for Ate Con and my other girlfriends who picked me up in the middle of the night because I couldn’t stop crying. For Miguel and Ralf, who swore I’d find someone better. For the late-night conversations with Eron and the long, heartfelt paragraphs from Monica and Jedd. I couldn’t handle it alone, so I curled up beside my mom, because sometimes healing looks like being held by the person who’s loved you longest.
The most vivid memory I carry is running to Dasa and telling her how it ended. In that moment, I remembered the question I had asked her months before: “If all the men I had talked to were in one room, who would I run to?” Back then, my answer was no one. But later, I admitted that if he were there, it would be him.
The most beautiful thing I ever did was open myself to the love of my friends and family at a time when I felt most unloved.
The irony, of course, is that in real life, it wasn’t him who welcomed me in tears. It was Dasa. It took a heartbreak for me to see that the people I instinctively ran to were the ones who had been loving me all along: my friends.
The kind of love I was searching for was never on Bumble or any dating app. It was in my friends who patiently listened to me retell the same story, in my family who let me cry without judgment, and in my best friends who helped mend a heart they didn’t break. Even when talking stages ended and situationships slipped away, love itself was never absent from my life. It had always been here, surrounding me, steady and sure.
So when he circled back with his “realizations,” when he said he might be ready to give love a chance, I didn’t villainize him. I didn’t hold his absence against him. Part of me hesitated, remembering the hurt, but a bigger part of me knew that accepting him again was the best decision I could make.
It reminded me that happiness often follows when we choose compassion over resentment. With him, it wasn’t about erasing what happened, but about writing a new chapter where love and forgiveness made both of us better, and me, undeniably, happier.
Love is a cycle none of us escapes. We love, ache, grow, and sometimes, love again. Unlike in fairy tales or rom-coms, real life doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after. But that doesn’t mean the story has to end in bitterness or regret.
Loving has always been natural for me. Maybe that’s why heartbreak stings less now, because I know my love isn’t wasted. Everyone deserves the kind of love I give; everyone who has received that love deserves every ounce of it. Because to be loved is to love, and the most beautiful thing I ever did was open myself to the love of my friends and family at a time when I felt most unloved. It made me realize who I truly am: someone who loves with everything she’s got.
That, to me, is the beauty of life and love. We get to write our own fairy tales and choose what love means in our stories. We don’t have to chase it desperately, because love is already everywhere, woven into the fabric of our everyday lives.
It’s in the wag of a childhood pet’s tail, the laughter of a best friend, the quiet presence of a sister. It lingers in the shade of your favorite lip gloss, the lessons of an elementary English teacher, the guidance of a high school adviser. Love does not only live in grand gestures. It hides in the smallest details, too.
And maybe the greatest act of love is learning to see it, and to love yourself enough to believe you are worthy of it. Because when love arrives, whether through people, memories, or little joys, all we are ever asked to do is accept it. That’s the real happy ending: realizing that love was never missing from your life. It was always here.
