The Loneliest Kind of Love

There’s a kind of loneliness that has nothing to do with being single. It’s not about not being loved. It’s not even about not being chosen. It’s about not being matched.

I’ve been loved—many times, by many people. But I have yet to meet someone who loves like I do, who shows love the way I do. And that is a different kind of grief. Because what do you do when the thing that defines you, the thing you offer most freely, the fire that burns in your chest like purpose, is a language no one else seems to speak? When the most sacred part of you is met not with malice but with misunderstanding—or worse, with praise that has no follow-through? Compliments with no actions? The illusion of reflection but never the echo of reciprocity?

It makes you feel not just unseen, but singular—like a creature out of myth, like someone born into a world where the way they love is considered too much, too intense, too impractical, too unreal to be real. But I know it’s real. I know it because I’ve lived it, because I give it, and because every time I do, it costs me something I can’t name, and I give it anyway.

I’ve written before that I love like oxygen, like fire, like something that cannot be turned off—only tended. I have shown up again and again, even when the silence came back louder than the knock, even when the seat beside me stayed empty. I have handed out kindness like bread at the door and gone to bed hungry. I don’t say that to martyr myself. I say it because it’s the truth. Somewhere along the line, I decided that love—real love—is not a transaction. It’s not a mirror for my needs. It’s a responsibility, a covenant, a choice. It’s showing up with sleeves rolled and conscience intact, even when no one’s watching, even when no one comes back.

That’s what Ethicism taught me. That’s what my own heart taught me. And what breaks me, over and over again, is realizing just how rare that kind of love is.

Most people don’t even know they’re not showing up. They believe they are. They feel it. They say the words. But their love lives in theory—not action, not body, not presence, not plans. It’s not evil, it’s not cruel, but it’s not enough.

Because here’s what love looks like to me, in real terms: texting first instead of waiting to be cued. Choosing a day to play the game we said we’d play—not someday, but Tuesday. Remembering that I exist when I’m not in front of you. Touching me because you want to, not because I nudged you toward the script. Building something together instead of simply praising what I’ve already built. A call before bed. A meal made without asking. A porch light that flickers back toward mine.

And it’s so rare.

Sometimes I ask myself: Am I the last of my kind? It sounds dramatic, I know—but it’s honest. I don’t just love hard. I love actively. I love in full sentences, in tasks completed, in promises kept without reminders. I love in little things done without fanfare. In silent watching. In remembering your favorite snack, your constant worry, the exact way your voice shifts when something’s bothering you. And I have yet to meet someone who does all of that back.

Not because they’re incapable, but because they’ve never had to. Because most people settle for less. They grow used to love that is passive, convenient, performed but not embodied. And I won’t. I can’t. Because I know what real presence feels like, and I’ve spent my entire life offering it—so why should I settle for less than a love that reaches back with both hands?

That’s what hurt most with my recent ex. Not just the absence of love, but the absence of mirroring. The absence of someone saying, “I see your fire—and I carry my own.” For a moment, I believed they did. For a moment, they said all the right things. They spoke in futures, promised forever, promised names for children, promised a shared life that echoed all the dreams I’ve written poems about. And then the light dimmed. Not because they stopped caring, but because caring wasn’t active.

It stopped being shown.

It stopped being reached.

The porch light stayed lit, but no one walked up the steps.

And eventually, I realized I was the only one tending the flame.

Again.

This is the loneliness I’m writing about: not the loneliness of absence, but the loneliness of asymmetry. I don’t need perfect love. I don’t need someone to match me gesture for gesture. But I need to feel met. I need to feel like I’m not the only one setting the table, lighting the candles, cooking the meal, holding the flame between my hands while waiting for someone to join me.

I need love with its sleeves rolled up. Love with footsteps. Love that doesn’t just praise my warmth—but brings their own blanket to share. Because I am done with praise that never becomes presence. I am done being someone’s best intention. I am done holding space for people who never step into it.

I know what I offer is rare. I’m not saying that to sound superior—it actually hurts to admit it. Because if what I offer is rare, then finding someone who reflects it back might be impossible. And that thought is unbearably lonely. It’s the kind of lonely that eats away at your hope, that makes you question whether you’re the one doing it wrong, that whispers: maybe you’re too much. Maybe you were never meant to be matched at all.

But here’s what I know now, after everything:

I’m not too much.

I am just right—for the right person.

And even if that person never comes, the way I love is not a flaw. It is not a burden. It is not a trap.

It is a gift.

A rare one.

One I will keep offering—even if no one ever matches it.

I will not hoard my warmth just because others don’t know how to hold it. I will not stop writing, reaching, loving, tending. Not because it doesn’t hurt—God, it hurts—but because this is who I am. Because this is what I believe in. Because this is the only kind of love I know how to give.

And one day—maybe—someone will sit beside me and say, “I’ve been loving this way too, and I’ve been waiting for someone else who understands.” And if they don’t, then I will still tend the fire. I will still light the porch. I will still wrap the wet coat in both hands and set it gently by the hearth—not because I expect someone to come, but because it is how I honor the kind of love I believe in.

So if you’re like me—if you’ve been told your love is too loud, too fast, too much; if you’ve been burned and still keep the flame; if you’ve ever wondered whether anyone else loves like you do—I see you. I am you. And this world needs us. Not because we are better, but because we are proof that love can be more than a pose. We are proof that care doesn’t have to be earned, that affection doesn’t have to be rationed, that showing up is its own sacred act.

So keep the fire.

Keep the light.

Keep the love that reaches, even when it’s met with silence.

You are not broken for loving this way.

You are rare.

You are radiant.

And even if no one else mirrors it, your kind of love is still worth giving.

And if this post ever becomes a song, let it be one sung not from triumph or despair, but from the glow of the hearth—the warmth still rising, the dragon still breathing, and the fire still burning.

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And so, I did what any bleeding heart would do, and channeled this pain into music...

The album, Circus of Ash, is out now.

Click here to listen on Spotify

Here's one of the full songs from the album,

Titled "The Last Circus of Ember"