I THINK I LOVE YOU.

Letters I Never Sent – Episode Three

“Love is sugar-coated lust,” I used to say – a shield, something smart and cynical to carry so no one got too close. I said it so often it almost became true. But lately, I can’t stop thinking about you. When I close my eyes, your face is there – those eyes that hunt a room like they own it, like they own me. Every time they meet mine, something inside untangles and then knots up again. It’s stupid. It’s terrifying. It’s also kind of beautiful.

I’ve changed. Not the glossy Instagram kind of glow-up people post about – the slow, messy kind that scrapes your knees and leaves scars. I used to love and then unlove. Trust and then doubt. Care and then stop – only to care again. All the people I met, the ones who gave me butterflies or froze me, the ones who hardened me, shaped who I am. Some nights I explain who I used to be like I’m apologising to a stranger. I’m not that kid anymore – less hungry for approval, less hot for validation, less desperate for dopamine dressed up as happiness.

Maybe we don’t even know each other yet, not in the way that matters. Or maybe we never will. But I’ve dreamt of you enough to sketch you blind – the tilt of your jaw, how your Afro falls, that crooked smile you hide when you’re trying not to laugh. I could give you a name, but I won’t.

A confession: you see, I was loved at home and bullied everywhere else. That split left a hole I’ve been patching all my life. Attention became currency; approval felt like survival. I built a wall and called it realism. “I don’t believe in love,” I’d say – first to keep predators out, later as an excuse to walk away the moment things got messy. Running felt easier than explaining the parts of me that ached.

My demons? They aren’t horror-movie ones – no fog, no horns – just small, patient voices whispering I’m not enough. They say kindness is pity, that people stay out of charity. They’re convincing. They turn warmth into inspection, affection into a trap.

So, here’s the truth: you’ll fall for me first, and then I’ll love you with a dangerous intensity. My love will be a fairytale without curses or cruel stepmothers. You’ll wish we’d met earlier, before ghosts bruised your trust in men.

I’ll whisper forgotten poems into your hair, and our love will become a language only we understand. When you’re tired, I’ll be masseur, chef, furnace. I’ll sing for you lullabies to sleep. I’ll call your dad and thank him for raising a soul that shines and your mom for bringing a gem into this world. I will love you for what and who you are. That’s my kind of love.

I’ll take your worries and carry them like mine. Nurse you when you’re sick, wrap you when you’re cold. I’ll be domestic, embarrassing, serious about small things that excite you. I’ll write dumb songs that make you laugh and maybe cringe. You’ll feel found.

Until…

One day I’ll wake up, and your good morning text will be sitting on my phone, a beacon of your affection. I'll read it, a small smile will cross my face, and then, for no reason at all, I’ll ignore it. I'll sit back and wait for your call to ring out, watching the screen light up with your name, and I’ll let it go unanswered.

Your laugh – once my favorite soundtrack – will become noise.  I’ll watch TV all day, scrolling through social media, a ghost in my own life. That evening, I’ll text you a lie, telling you I’m busy and that I want to sleep early, a flimsy excuse that hides the truth of my cowardice. The next day, it gets worse. I’ll start to feel like you're nagging me, and your presence, your calls, or your texts will start to disgust me, deeply. I’ll begin putting my phone away just to find some peace, to silence your voice in my mind.

Sooner or later, you'll realize I'm avoiding you. The confusion will turn into worry, and you'll make an effort to reach out, to ask for forgiveness for something you had no part in. My silence will become your guilt. If you're lucky, maybe, just maybe, a sting of guilt will hit me and I'll tell you that I'm fighting my demons. I'll say that's why I've been so quiet. Then I’ll apologize and promise to be better, and I'll even think so, too–until my demons pull me back into the abyss of fear. They whisper in my ear, Don't let her in. Don't let her get close. She's going to hurt you.

I'll continue to push you away further, claiming I'm dealing with my own shit and can't tell you what's going on. It’s ironic, because I always told you we were each other's safe space and that we had to communicate everything happening in our lives. The words will taste like ash in my mouth. I’ll tell you that I need to process all this on my own and that I love you too much to stress you with my problems. Lame, right? It’s a tired line, a cliché of emotional unavailability. But it works every time.

You'll spend a few nights asking yourself what you did wrong. You'll bring up your old insecurities and call yourself unworthy. You'll wonder if you're too much, or not enough. And then, slowly, you'll pick yourself up and realize it was all on me. You'll see my walls for what they are. You'll take the first step to walking away from all the memories and promises we made. Eventually we will say “it’s not working anymore” and we will let go like people who’ve rehearsed this exact ending a thousand times.

I’m not calling this fate. I know the script; I’ve written and lived it a million times. These demons? They are a chorus in my head, they know the routes of my heart; they wait for me to trip so they can rush in and vandalize what’s left. And yes, I will have loved you with every fibre of my being, but them? They may never love you like that. All they see is pain lurking in the shadows waiting to pounce. On some cold nights, they whisper, Why her? She’s too good for you. She’ll leave. Better you leave first. They make love look like pity. They make joy look tactical. When shame arrives, it spins you. You pity yourself harder than anyone could pity you – and pity is one of the cruelest lonelies.

Yet the love I offered was real – the hugs, the kisses, the cuddles, the laughter, the tears. They all held true stories until the question crept in: am I worthy of your perfect love? I’m not even good-looking, my wallet’s light. Why would someone like you want someone like me? That thought gnawed at me until I believed you were here only out of sympathy, passing time until something better came along. And when the whispers grew louder than your reassurance, I gave in.

You’re probably scared now – relax.

Because I’m tired of that loop. Tired of making love collateral damage. I want something different – messy, hard, radical: presence. I won’t promise perfection. I might still fail. But I want to try. To be the man who stays, even when it’s easier to run. Not to own you, but to build something you’d choose every morning.

I want the small routines to feel sacred. To be the call you make when your day collapses. To stay on the days I feel like a stranger to myself. To know how you like your tea, and hold silence when you have no words. I want a love that’s stubborn, patient, skilled at repair – not because it’s easy, but because it’s chosen.

I can’t promise flawless history. I’ve been selfish, proud, cowardly. But I promise effort. I’ll name my demons instead of letting them narrate my life. I’ll ask for help instead of retreating. I’ll ask you to stay – and mean it.

I don’t ask for much. Only that you understand me on my quiet days. That you don’t mistake silence for indifference. That you hold me accountable without letting me vanish. If I hurt you, call it out. If I need to change, say it. I’ll try not to run. I’ll try to answer. I’ll try to make apologies that matter.

Imagine a love that’s not a show but a practice. We don’t wake perfect – we wake willing. We fail, repair, forgive, repeat. We learn each other’s griefs. We hold hands through the boring bits, hearts through the monstrous ones.

Maybe you’ll read this and smile at my audacity. Maybe you’ll roll your eyes. Maybe you’ll never know me. Or maybe you’ll know me better than anyone and still stay. Whatever happens, I won’t keep pretending. Love is not just lust. Fear is not armour.

So yes – I think I love you. Maybe I always have. Maybe that’s the scariest part: my heart learning while my mouth rehearsed the opposite. I want to be better for you and with you. To build a life that’s ordinary and loud and safe all at once.

I promise a love that returns. When I say “I love you,” I mean it as action, not just words. I mean staying when it’s easier to vanish. I mean patience, space, presence. I mean practising until love becomes the architecture of something lasting.

If our paths cross sooner or later, and your smile says maybe, we’ll know. If it says no, then at least this confession is honest. If it’s complicated, let it start a conversation, not silence.

But until then – I remain yours truly,

– The Imperfect Writer