Falling in love with a character feels like trying to catch sunlight my hands. It’s warm, it’s beautiful, it fills the spaces I didn’t know were empty and yet… it slips through my fingers every time. It doesn’t stop me from reaching, of course. How could it? They make me feel so alive! Their pain twists in my stomach, their voice lingers in my mind like a song I never want to stop playing. I hold them close in a way that’s both intimate and impossible, and it leaves me hollow in ways I can’t quite name.
Our hearts don’t know the difference. Truly, it doesn’t care that they’re nothing more than ink on paper or colored pixels on a screen. Love doesn’t require clarity to bloom, it only needs a spark. And anyway scientifically, the spark doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t, right? Our brains are wired for connection, attachment, and it clings to the echoes of something that feels like love. To our minds, this is as real as the warmth of a hand, as real as the quiet of a shared moment. It lights up in the same places it would for someone flesh and bone and breathing beneath the touch of our fingertips
But that’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it? The love we feel is real, yet it has nowhere to go. We can’t reach them. We can’t hear their laugh in the room with us or feel their eyes meet ours in a way that says we are known. And so, we grieve. Quietly. Privately. The kind of grief that doesn’t know how to name itself because it’s not just loss. It’s an ache for something that never truly existed. It lingers, like perfume in an empty room. Knowing our heart is capable of such depth, even if it was never meant to be returned, is bittersweet. Perhaps that’s why it hurts so much, because it’s real for you and me, even when they never can be.
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