The Lounge Philosopher

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February has arrived once more. That peculiar month in which love is paraded with great fanfare, wrapped in roses and declarations, while longing tends to linger, uninvited yet ever-present.

It is perhaps no surprise, then, that I have found myself once again drawn into the world of Bridgerton. To its elegant restraint. Its intentional glances. Its unapologetic devotion to all that remains unspoken. There is something sincerely comforting in a story that understands how much of love lives not in grand gestures, but in pauses, in waiting, in wanting.

And so, with gratitude for the inspiration and no desire to imitate anything but the mood it allows, I offer my own letter this season.

Not a declaration.
Not an announcement.

But a love letter, of sorts — to the longing.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is the month of love again.

Roses are being purchased. Expectations are being raised. And once more, the world seems intent on reminding us, quite openly, who has been chosen, and who has not.

I could, of course, pretend indifference. Laugh it off with a suitably timed joke about “holding out for a hero.” I could lean heavily on the virtues of independence, resilience, and self-sufficiency, all of which I know well and value deeply.

But the truth is far less dramatic… and far more honest.

I simply want to be loved.
Really loved.
At least once.

We are told, gently and not-so-gently, that wanting love is a weakness. That we should be grateful for our freedom. That self-love ought to be enough. And while I believe wholeheartedly in learning to stand on one’s own feet, in building a life of meaning and integrity, I also know this:

There is very little in this world that compares to being loved, and loving in return.

To be chosen.
To be seen.
To rest inside someone’s care without having to earn it.

This is not a plea. Nor a fantasy. It is not a demand for perfection or grand romance.
It is a deeply human ache, the kind many of us carry while pretending we are perfectly fine.

So no, this is not a Valentine’s post.

It is a love letter to the longing.

To the wanting, we soften with humour so it does not sting quite so sharply.
To the hope we keep tucked away, lest it appear foolish.
To the part of us that still believes love is worth desiring, even after disappointment, even after time has passed.

Wanting love does not make us naïve.
It does not make us weak.
And it certainly does not make us pathetic.

It makes us alive.

The Unspoken Sadness

There is something else I have noticed, and I confess it saddens me more than I care to admit.

Increasingly, I hear women speak of love with resignation rather than hope. They admire my singleness as though it were a badge of strength, a sign that I have somehow transcended the need for love altogether.

And while I understand the armour, truly, I do, I cannot pretend it does not ache to witness so many hearts closing their doors without a word.

Disillusionment is understandable. Heartbreak has a way of teaching us caution. Yet somewhere along the way, caution has begun to masquerade as wisdom, and longing has been recast as foolishness.

Perhaps this makes me an utter romantic at heart, but even after deep loss, even after heartbreak, I would never wish on another; I still believe in love.

Not the glossy version captured in perfect photographs or fleeting moments, but the real thing.
The kind that asks you to risk again when you’d rather protect yourself.
The kind that requires you to soften where you were once hurt.

I don’t believe believing in love makes one naïve.
I believe it makes one brave.

For in a time where it is far easier to detach, to dismiss, to declare oneself “done,” choosing to still believe is its own act of defiance.

And if believing in love is unfashionable now, then I will gladly be out of season.

Closing

So this February, I am choosing honesty over bravado.

I will not pretend I do not care.
I will not shame myself for wanting more than solitude dressed up as strength.

I want love.

And if that makes me a romantic in a practical world, then so be it.

After all…
What is life without a little longing?