the performance of love.

there’s no such thing as pretending to love someone—until there is.

As a child, love was easy. It came in the form of crayon drawings, impulsive hugs, and declaring your best friend fourteen times a day. It came in knowing what you loved—knowing it fully, without apology. I used to love dancing alone in the living room, making up stories for clouds, building forts out of blankets and dreams. I was not pretending.

But then I grew up.

And suddenly, loving became something with rules. Timelines. Expectations. A play where no one gave you the script but still expected you to act convincingly. You were supposed to be desirable but not too much. Soft but not naïve. Passionate but also cool enough to not care.

That’s when I met him.
Or the version of him that made me feel like I mattered. He smiled at all the right times. Said things that felt like safety. And maybe that’s what made it cruel—he didn't love me, but he studied what love looked like. Mimicked it. Just enough to keep me tethered. Just enough to make me doubt myself when things started to unravel.

There’s no such thing as pretending to love someone, they say.
But what if it wasn’t love he faked—what if it was hope?
What if he sold me the idea that I was wanted, just so I wouldn't walk away?
Because keeping someone around is easier than keeping them happy.

I used to think the worst kind of heartbreak was unrequited love.
But it’s not.
It’s manufactured love.
It’s real on one side and rehearsed on the other.
It’s the quiet humiliation of realizing you were the only one who meant every word.

When I was a child, the world never made me doubt myself. I could say “I love this!” and mean it. I could dream loudly. Cry openly. Want things without guilt. But somewhere along the way, that ease became effort. I learned to hide the parts of me that felt too much. I began apologizing for needing clarity. I started saying “it’s okay” when it wasn’t.

Growing up is not just about bills and responsibilities. It’s about grief.
The grief of losing that version of yourself who didn’t know how to second-guess.
The grief of learning that people will choose comfort over honesty.
The grief of realizing that some good memories were built on lies.

But still, I don't regret it.
Because even though he pretended—I didn’t.
And that matters.

I loved honestly. I stayed sincerely. I asked questions because I cared, not because I wanted to trap someone. And no amount of manipulation or mixed signals can taint that kind of truth. My love was not wasted. It just wasn’t received.

And maybe that’s what growing up really is.
Not becoming harder.
But learning how to keep your softness safe.
Learning how to love without vanishing.
Learning that even if someone pretended, you were still real.

I used to think the point of love was to be chosen.
Now I think it’s to stay yourself, even when you aren’t.

Maybe we outgrow people.
But the real heartbreak is when we outgrow versions of ourselves.

The girl who stayed too long. The girl who kept explaining. The girl who mistook breadcrumbs for effort.

I miss being a child, not because life was easier—but because I was.

And now?
I’m slowly, painfully, beautifully unlearning everything that made me feel like I had to audition for love.

There’s no such thing as pretending to love someone?
Maybe not.
But there are people who pretend just enough to be cruel without consequence.
And that’s a kind of love story too.
A cautionary one.
A coming-of-age one.
One that ends not with closure, but with clarity.

And that’s enough for me.