I Was a Hopeless Romantic… in Secret

Not because I was ashamed. But because no one would’ve taken it seriously.

Hollywood ruined me in the best way.

Those sweeping soundtracks, last-minute airport chases, broken people finding each other at exactly the right time...
I swallowed all of it.
Not just as entertainment ... but as possibility.

For me, romance wasn’t a subplot.
It was life.

And it didn’t matter if the real world didn’t work that way.
I wasn’t asking it to.
I had my own little theatre ... in my head, in my heart, in the formal sitting room of my family home where I’d walk slow, thoughtful circles, daydreaming entire conversations with someone who hadn’t arrived yet.

Sometimes she was a face from TV.
Sometimes she was a drawing ... a cartoon character with a soft voice and a big heart.
Sometimes she was no one and everyone, just a blurry presence I filled in as I went.

And always ... always ... I’d write her letters.
Not to send.
Just to say.

I was a teen falling in love with outlines and imagined softness.
The one I hoped my mom or aunt would someday help me find.
I was quietly shaping my idea of the perfect woman… before I’d ever had a real conversation with one.

And I don’t regret any of it.

Because those imaginary talks ... they were comforting.
They were rehearsals.
They were proof that some part of me already knew how to care… how to listen… how to love.

Then I got older.

College cracked the door open.
It was the first time I sat with strangers ... just me and them ... and realized: the world is full of stories I’ve never lived.
I didn’t always agree. But I listened. I learned.
And my inner romantic?

He got quieter.

Reality has a way of humbling the dreamer in you.

I still remember the first time a woman flirted with me ... for real, not imagined.
She worked at a campus coffee shop.
I froze.
Absolutely no script. No circling the room with lines I'd already practiced.
I couldn’t even look her in the eye.
I’d just been taught how important that was ... and I couldn’t do it.

I shrunk.

Because when fantasy finally speaks back… it’s terrifying.
You want it to match what you imagined.
But you’re too overwhelmed to let it.

That’s what being a hopeless romantic in secret is like.

You love loudly in your head.
But when the real thing knocks, you hide.
Not because you don’t want it ... but because it never quite looks the way you rehearsed it.

And so you carry it quietly.

You laugh off the softness.
You play the confident one.
But inside, you’re still writing those letters ... still circling the room ... still waiting for someone who sees all that love you never stopped offering… just a little too quietly.

And maybe you’re not alone in that.
Maybe we’re all, in some way, mid-monologue.
Still rehearsing.
Still hoping.
Still holding out for a scene that feels like something we used to dream about.