I am such a fairytale lover. I always have been. I fall in love with the idea of love before I ever fall for the person. I create a story in my head and wait for someone to step into it and play their part perfectly.
And I do not say that proudly.
Because when reality does not match the story I imagined, I feel disappointed. I pull away, convinced that if it were right, it would not feel this hard or this confusing. I walk away before giving love the chance to become something real.
I have kissed my share of frogs, hoping one would finally turn into a prince. And maybe some of them did, for a moment. But the magic never lasted. Eventually the fantasy faded and I was usually left wondering why love could not look the way I planned it in my head.
Lately, I have been asking myself if the problem is not them, but my expectations. If I have been searching for a fairytale that only exists on screens and in storybooks. If I have been holding real people to an imaginary standard no one could ever live up to.
And what I am learning is that sometimes the fairytale does not arrive the way you expect it to.
Sometimes it comes quietly. Calmly. Without chaos or confusion. It feels intentional. Patient. Safe. It feels like being seen and heard without having to repeat yourself. Like being loved without having to perform.
It is new. It is different. And it is nothing like the story I once wrote in my head.
But it loves me in a way I have never known. It shows up. It listens. It pays attention. It feels steady instead of rushed, gentle instead of overwhelming.
And maybe that is the real fairytale.
Not the one I imagined for years, but the one that surprised me. The one that feels real life perfect. The one written just for me.
Love ya, BYE!
Tee Talk 