I used to call it love. The late-night calls, the constant need to be around each other, the way my heart raced whenever they texted — it felt like everything love was supposed to be. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t love. It was fear. Fear of being alone. Fear of silence. Fear of sitting with myself and realizing I didn’t like my own company.

I stayed in situations that drained me because emptiness scared me more than unhappiness did. I convinced myself that a half-love was better than none. I told myself that if I just tried harder, gave more, proved myself enough, maybe it would turn into the kind of love I dreamed about. But all it ever did was make me smaller.

There’s a strange kind of loneliness that comes with pretending you’re okay. You post pictures, smile in public, and tell people you’re “fine,” but inside, you’re begging someone to choose you so you don’t have to choose yourself. That was me. For a long time.

It took walking away to see the truth — that what I thought was love was really my fear of being left behind. It wasn’t affection; it was attachment. I wasn’t in love with them; I was dependent on the idea of not being alone.

Now, I understand that love doesn’t grow in fear. Real love comes when you’re not desperate for someone to fill your emptiness — when you’ve learned to fill it yourself. The peace I feel now is quiet but strong. I no longer chase love to escape loneliness; I wait for it to meet me in wholeness.

It wasn’t love. I was just afraid to be alone. But learning to be alone was how I finally learned to love for real.