Winning Story: Love, Unwritten, By Anonymous
Love it unwritten.
It lingers between the lines, in the half-breaths before confessions, in the fingertips that almost, but never quite, touch. Between the eyes of lovers, in the palms of friends, in the February air. Sky. Night. It is everywhere. Inescapable. Painted in grand strokes across stories and whispered in melodies that haunt the air. They say love is the pinnacle of existence, the missing piece, the soft ending to a rough start. They say it’s a compass guiding you in the right directions. They say it’s in the fleeting moments, in the seconds between minutes, in the hours of a day.
But I’ve never been sure I believe them.
I’ve imagined what it would be like to have someone love you, and to love them back. I’ve imagined what it would feel like to be in their presence as much as possible. I’ve imagined what it would sound like to have their songs intertwine with your own. A symphony to call your own. A symphony you could call home.
But I’ve never been sure I trust that.
Love is insistent.
It pressed itself in my life like an unwanted guest, filling the silence with stories that are not mine. It is there in the glances between strangers, in the way the world sighs at grand declarations, in the expectation that I, too, should yearn for its touch. But love and I have always been at odds. On different sides of the coin. The sun and the moon. The moth and the fla me. It is chaos disguised as harmony, a force too vast to be tamed by the fragile hope of human hands.
And yet…
I cannot deny the way my heart stirs at its call. At its sounds. At its voice. Despite my defiance, my resistance, my restraint, I catch myself wondering: what would it be like to surrender? To let love write itself and plaster its words on my skin. To have its ink seep deep through my blood until it clings to my bones? I watch it slip between people, weaving its invisible threads…and I envy them. I resent them. I long for something I do not know how to name. And it’s hurting - hurting me. Perhaps love is not meant to be conquered. Or understood. Or found. Perhaps it’s meant to be complicated. Meant to be tangled. Maybe it’s in the way the sky changes at dusk, in the weight of an unread letter. I have spent my life keeping that feeling, that emotion at bay, fearing its power, fearing its strength, yet always, always looking back.
Love is grim.
It's a stranger. A stranger lurking amongst the shadows, waiting its turn to hunt its prey. Its victim. Who will be first to fall into its claws? Its jaws. Who will be the first to plead? To pray? To bleed? It’s a ghost. A ghost in the corners, shrouded in darkness and swallowed in the eerie night, piercing eyes watching. Who will be the first to notice? To run? To hide? It’s a creature. A creature in the woods, high in the trees, counting the hours. Minutes. Seconds. It waits. It hunts. It feasts. Waits for someone to fall into its trap, hunting them down when they start to realise, and left dead. Stone, cold dead. In the middle of the night. In the middle of the woods. In the middle of fear.
There are countless times where I’ve fought back. When I’ve fought off the strangers, when I’ve lit a ghost into flames, when I’ve killed the creature and left it to rot. There are countless times where I’ve won. But there are also times where I’ve lost. When the strangers reached out and grabbed hold of me, when the ghost would wrap itself around my bones, my soul, when the creature would leave me for the dead. The crows circling above my head. I see it as a nightmare - a nightmare I can’t get rid of. I’ve only ever ignored it, but now more than ever, the nightmare returns. The same sharp, stinging cold I wake up to or the red, fiery poison I feel seep into my blood. No matter how much I try to fight it and avoid it, the stranger, the ghost, the creature, they always come running back, chasing me until I surrender.
I don’t want to surrender.
I’ve built walls against love, but they are made of glass, and love…it continues to try and drill its way through. It watches me through the small cracks that I’ve never quite been able to conceal. It watches me, waiting for the moment when the glass finally shatters. And sometimes, when the world is still and the weight of solitude grows heavy, I wonder what it would be like to let it in. Would it hurt? Would it heal? Would it fill the empty spaces? Replace the splinters and seal up the wounds?
I hear stories of a writer - a writer who spent their life crafting love stories but never lived on. I think of them often, wondering if they felt the same longing I do, the same contradiction of wanting and fearing in equal measure. I wonder if they, too, wrestled with the stranger, the ghost, the creature. If they spent their nights staring at the ceiling, tracing outlines of imagined hands against their own. Imagined smiles to match their own. Imagined eyes lingering just a little while longer.
But I don’t want to surrender.
Love is exhausting.
It demands vulnerability. I don’t think I’m there yet. It demands surrender. I don’t think I’m there yet. It seeps into the cracks of our carefully structured lives and rearranges everything without permission. I don’t think I’m there yet. It does not negotiate. It does not wait. And so, perhaps, my hesitation is not truly about whether I deserve love, but whether I am ready for the weight of it. To love is to risk, and I have spent a lifetime avoiding the precipice, fearing the fall more than the loneliness that comes with standing still.
I’ve learnt to protect myself from it. I told myself that the fear was defence. A shield. Or so I thought that’s what I was doing. I thought I could hold up my walls, I thought I was carrying the shield, I thought I was protecting myself. I wasn’t. My walls were crumbling, my shield was a sword, and I was exposing myself. Broken. Lost. Alone. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t fight the strangers. I couldn’t fight the ghosts. I couldn’t fight the creatures. I couldn’t. I couldn’t.
I didn’t want to be saved. But maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a bad thing. They say the boy saving the girl is traditional. An old tale. Patriarchal. Snow White, The Little Mermaid, Sleeping Beauty. But what happens if you are so lost? So hurt? So torn apart? What then? Maybe it’s not called saving or rescuing or an act of heroism. Maybe it’s something else. When a moment of vulnerability is shared between two people. Neither one is saving the other but rather saving each other. I used to hate the idea of being saved. I used to hate the idea of love at first sight. First glance. First touch.
I used to hate it. Love. I don’t think I hate it anymore.
Love is unwritten.
It stands beside me at the edge of the cliff. It does not push, does not pull, but simply waits. It speaks in quiet patience, in laughter that softens fear, in a presence that feels like the first breath of spring after an endless winter. It was never a stranger, or a ghost, or a creature. It was unfamiliar. Unseeable. Untamable. I think that’s what scared me the most. But I’m done running. I’m done hiding myself away from it. I’m done fighting. I’m done yielding the sword that wounds myself more. I’m done hurting.