The Greatest Drug of All

What is falling in love?

Have I ever allowed myself to?

Or has it always been a fantasy?

I think from a young age I knew better.

I saw what people said love was—

and I knew that wasn’t it.

But maybe falling was different.

Uncontrollable.

Choosing love always felt more romantic to me.

Choosing someone despite themselves felt noble.

Loving someone into loving themselves? That was the good kind of wild.

I never wanted to be swept away by love.

I wanted to stand in it— eyes wide open.

When they say “falling in love,”

I think they mean they lost themselves in someone else.

Which— maybe I’ve done too.

Because I’ve lost myself before.

So maybe falling wasn’t love.

Maybe it was just falling for their bullshit.

For the illusion.

For the version of them I hoped was real.

For the belief that they would carry what I was never meant to hold alone.

But love?

Real love doesn’t ask me to disappear.

It meets me where I already am.

Fully.

When I say “falling in love”—if I ever do—

it’ll be about the one time I recognized myself more clearly through someone else,

and choose to stay.

Even if they don’t.

I’m not missing anything.

I just know better than to call infatuation love.

I’m not resisting love.

I’m refusing cheap imitations.

I’m not waiting to fall.

I’m learning to recognize who’s worth rising for.

I don’t fall.

But maybe someday,

I’ll rise.