For a long time, I perceived loneliness as a temporary stop. As if my real life would begin after "that one person" appeared. Then there would be breakfasts together, trips, Sunday plans, photos of the two of us. For now, just a rough draft.

But you know what's strange? I'm tired of waiting for my own life.

I can choose my own movie and not argue over the genre. I can order noodles in the middle of the night. I can suddenly change my hair color. I can buy a ticket to another city simply because I wanted to see the sea on Tuesday morning.

And for some reason, all of this is considered an "incomplete life."

No. An incomplete life is when you constantly put yourself off until someone else comes along.

I'm not against love. In fact, I really want it. I just don't want to use it as a gateway to normal life anymore.

If someone comes along one day, I don't want to escape my loneliness with them. I want to share with them the life that already exists, the interesting, sometimes absurd, but still mine.

For now, the other bun is also mine. And, frankly, she gets my jokes perfectly.