The lips on the other side of my first kiss belonged to Tiago*, a friend of a friend’s roommate visiting from out of town. We met at a Halloween party where he came dressed in a fitted, short-sleeve button down shirt with little toucans on it instead of a costume.

Lord knows how we got to talking, but we did and, as is wont to happen in a room full of slightly intoxicated college students, we got to talking about Marx. Or, at least he did. I listened politely and routinely nodded to affirm my relative interest, as I am wont to do in a room full of slightly intoxicated college students discussing Marx. It wasn’t long, however, until the conversation shifted.

“Your smile,” he mused. “Do you know how beautiful it is? Your teeth glitter like polished pearls. And your laugh. Your laugh…”

The conversation bounced between us like this for a bit–  communism, polite head-bobbing, saccharine compliments– until Tiago was called away by his friend.

“I’ll be right back,” he told me, which, I suppose, was an indication I should stay in place. And I probably would have, as I had nowhere else to be and am not opposed to flattery, but the friend I had come to the party with approached me looking green in the face from consuming– then throwing up– too much UV Blue the night before.

“I need to go,” she said, “Please, can we go?”

I bid adieu to Tiago on our way out of the apartment and followed my friend down the hall to the elevator. Just as the doors were about to ding open, a ferocious pounding started up down the hall, shaking the stained carpet and stirring the weed-laced air. I turned to see Tiago running full speed toward us, then turned back to my friend who rolled her eyes, stepped into the elevator, and told me she would meet me in the lobby.

When Tiago arrived at my side, chest heaving and toucan shirt moist with sweat, he told me he couldn’t let me leave without getting my number. I punched it into his phone and looked up to find his blue eyes staring longingly into mine.

“Looking into your eyes,” he sighed, “is like looking into two glittering suns.” The next thing I knew, his fingers were in my hair, the taste of his last beer was on my tongue, and the stage was set for my future of cinematic yet passionless romance.

—

I imagine that sounds a bit harsh and even a bit heartless. The truth is, I’m not sure how else to describe the string of swoon-worthy moments I’ve experienced that have always (and unfortunately) come without the accompanying butterflies. It feels as if some omnipotent author of the universe is desperately trying to write me into my very own YA novel, but my heart is refusing to play along. And, honestly, it’s not for lack of trying.

I’ve written love note upon love note and sent them over email, text, Facebook messenger, and good ol’ snail mail. I’ve stayed up late into the night musing about the universe and everything in it, slowly drifting asleep on the apple of my eye’s shoulder. I let men walk me home, I let them hold me in the moonlight, I let them sleep over. I’ve woken up to “Mornin’ beautiful”s and the evidence of late-night kisses blooming red on my neck.

I’ve done all these things in the name of love, yet love was never something I had or found. And I couldn’t understand why. I tried so hard to do all the things the other girls did and indulge myself in the advice coded into romance movies and books. Yet none of it worked. So, naturally, I did more.

“More” came in the form of a month-long pilgrimage to Los Angeles. That was the hometown of Adam, the man I’d consider to be my very first love. Though our romance had been long distance up to the moment my plane touched down in LAX, it was credulously devoted. We had already been through waves of joy and heartbreak, cohesion and discord, and I truly believed my trip would seal the deal on a life-long partnership.

Our very first in-person date took place on the Santa Monica Pier at sunset. Adam and I held each other as we gazed out over the rose-tinted Pacific, and my heart… well, my heart sank. Something was just off. The man I loved so deeply from miles away did not feel the same as the man whispering sweet nothings into my hair, which meant, of course, that I had to try harder.

I pulled Adam across the city with me. We ran around Disneyland, took long, scenic drives, and played house in my Airbnb. Hell, against both of our better judgments, we even carved our initials into a tree at the UCLA botanical garden (I’m sorry, Mother Earth). And, yes, I did cry when my month was up, and I had to return to my home base of New Jersey, but not because I was going to miss the man I loved. No, it was because I hadn’t found love.** I had thrown in every ounce of my energy and every minute of every day for a full month only to touch down in Newark Liberty feeling like a total failure.

I took a bit of a dating hiatus after Adam. Part of it was because no interesting men happened upon my path, and part of it was because I felt broken. All the other girls my age seemed to have no problem going out and gettin’ some (for lack of a more poetic term), but, nope, no fireworks for me. Not even a little spark.

—

It wasn’t until I met Collin that I started to get it. We met while swing dancing (very USO-chic). It was actually at the very first swing dance I ever attended, and I couldn’t help but let my imagination wander to daydreams of fate. Much like Tiago, Collin was well-read, highly ponderous, and an engaging speaker. He ended up walking my friend and I back to my car at the end of the night like a true gentleman before asking for my number.

Our romance spanned a couple months and, while fun and pleasant, never inspired daydreams of white gowns or petal-strewn alters. Hell, I couldn’t even decide if I wanted to invite Collin to brunch with my friends. Still, our relationship was far from devoid of picturesque scenes of romance I’m wont to experience. Take , for instance, our very last date– the date that convinced me Collin and I were not meant to be. We enjoyed dinner under the stars, crashed a swing dance party on the lawn of his alma mater, and wistfully conversed on topics of unfathomable depth while sprawled out on a dock beside a star-studded creek. But, still, when we parted ways that night, I felt an ever-so-familiar constriction in my chest–the lifelong warning sign that I was going against my better judgment.

The next morning, I dashed back to my coworker and steadfast confidant’s cubicle to tell her about my night and more or less reason my way into loving Collin and to pry open the metaphysical hand gripping in my chest. I rambled on about his good traits and how I should be feeling and why I maybe wasn’t feeling that way and what I could do to hopefully feel that way because I really probably should be and–

“You know,” she started in between soggy bites of cereal, “It sounds like you’re doing a lot of thinking and working, but how do you actually feel?”

My hand immediately flew to my chest, “I feel like I can’t breathe. And I don’t get it, you know? This always happens. I’m presented with these great guys, I’m put in these idyllic situations, but I feel like I’m letting the universe down because I just cannot fall in love. It’s just labor, it takes everything out of me.”

My coworker gave a little smile– the kind of smile that says, “I’m going to tell you something that will change your world.” She took a sip of her milky tea and stated, “You may be right. These may be great guys, but they may not be the right guys. And it doesn’t matter how picturesque the scene is. If you’re not with the right guy, they’re never going to mean anything to you. Love isn’t labor. It just makes sense.”

—

Damn, was that a lightbulb moment. All the effort I had put into relationships, all the finagling of feelings I had attempted– they were signs my romances were doomed from the start because I was completely ignoring the actual feeling of love. You know, the swelling of orchestral music accompanying the first kiss in a movie, the lyrical language tugging at your heartstrings in novels, the starry-eyed look in a girl’s eyes when she tells you about the boy she loves…

I had let perfectionism and aesthetic get in the way of true emotion, partially because I’m a Type A kinda gal, partially because it’s hard to teach a feeling, and partially because I have yet to meet the fabled “Mr. Right.” And that’s all cool, that’s all good. Actually, it quite a relief. Because, if love truly was all the toiling, questioning, and panic I was putting into my relationships, I was starting to think I didn’t want to find it at all. But knowing when it’s right? Feeling at home with someone? That’s what love actually is, and that’s something my emotional little Pisces heart can handle.

—

* All names have been changed for the privacy of the individuals mentioned (as if the highly specific scenarios I describe aren’t dead giveaways to anyone who knows an inkling about my life).

** To be clear, I did love him and enjoy frolicking about for a month in his company. It just wasn’t the let’s-hightail-it-across-the-border-and-elope-in-Vegas-because-I can’t-stand-to-be-anything-but-yours kind of love I was expecting.