I’m not living in a script, yet somehow, I keep measuring my life against one I didn’t write ✨.

Being single isn’t just about missing someone—it’s about noticing how weirdly invested society is in pairing people up. My friends gush about their “perfect matches,” and strangers offer dating advice like I’m collecting stamps or something 🤷‍♀️. I tried following some of it once, but it felt like trying to squeeze myself into someone else’s narrative. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t fit 🪑.

Sometimes I romanticize what I could have, and sometimes I revel in what I do have. Late-night drives with music too loud, pancakes at midnight, not answering texts because I don’t want to—these small freedoms taste sweeter than any relationship ever promised 🥞🎶. But then, weirdly, I catch myself wondering if I’m building walls too high, if independence has turned into isolation 🤔.

I’ve realized maybe singlehood isn’t a status—it’s a lens. A way of looking at life without filtering it through someone else’s expectations. I can be sad, joyful, lonely, ecstatic, all at once, and still feel complete 💖. But here’s the real question I keep circling back to: is it better to wait for love, or better to rewrite the definition of it entirely?