Love That Falls on Deaf Ears

By  ARYAN AGARWAL ‘27

“You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.”

But Franz Kafka, I have a question. Love’s blade cuts the flesh so ruthlessly, but do my scars show affection or really, the futility behind it all? Is there a charming purpose in the agony, or is it for nothing? The cruelty of love, maybe, is best shown in its one-sided form, or what is better known today as unrequited love. History’s poets and romanticists have idolized the suffering of yearning because, for an entertainer, love’s meaning comes from sleepless nights and days soaked in tears. After all, when romance’s glass ball is dropped and shattered, we’re left with an itch. What if it worked out? So we dream — in my opinion, though, we delude. The appeal associated with unappreciated passion is a product of illusion.

For centuries we’ve welcomed plots where the torture is entertained, leaving society believing that love left unanswered is the ultimate form of human compassion. But I’m unwilling to glamorize the cold truth — it’s easy for ignorant or unknowing souls to do so. I think that the so-called “beauty” in such love is the seeming act of selflessness: despite knowing that their feelings can never be felt, they love regardless. It’s like a nightingale singing to a closed window — its heavenly voice is left unheard, but it keeps singing. 

“Maybe, just maybe, if I sing a little bit louder, try a little bit harder, the window will crack open, and they will adore me again, just as I adore them.” Lovelorns relentlessly hold on, but not because they love unconditionally. It’s because they revel in the “maybe,” the wish that something might change. Failing to live in reality, they find hope in a fictional future where they are heard, a fiction that they author for their very survival. Delusion truly is an evil thing.

“By believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it. The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired.”

Kafka, I hate you. Because you’re right. To long for someone is sadly to live in a realm of fantasy. 

The way that I see it, one-sided love is painted as the most genuine kind — on the surface, if you continue giving while never receiving anything back, it means that you love truly, love with no expectations. Really though, that’s a lie. I figure these people live in another plane, one where their irrational love is completely sensical — a world where something waits on the other side. In public spaces, they crane their necks searching for a glance — when they catch one, they stare, even though the other person doesn’t think twice. Caring texts like “did you eat,” or “how was ur day,” come routinely, while the other responds days later with, “sry ive been rly busy.” Sure you were.

Why does it continue? Are these people not tired of giving a mile and receiving an inch? Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the memory of a better time; they scroll through messages from months before, smiling and laughing to themselves. They ignore the fights, the long paragraphs sent, and the weeks of distance, only left with exactly what they want: a time when they’ve felt valued. Lovelorns are blinded by their past emotions, and thus they believe in something that they thought they had. Something that was never really there. “I’m so, so stupid.”

I guess then, unrequited love was always just a tale of foolishness — someone, though, will surely come along and say that there is art in idiocy. To them I ask, why are you so blind? For a second, can we stop feeding into the escapism and accept the bitter reality: this isn’t a love story, it’s a lack of self-respect. 

“You are free, and that is why you are lost.”

It hurts. To even think that it’s all fake, that they never cared, and that they never will, is one of the most gut-wrenching feelings — that’s why we try to run away from it. But I’ll say this: to live every day trapped in a lie, no matter how cozy, is still to live in a lie. And life is too fleeting to choose comfort in a cage over freedom in the sky, even if it hurts to fly alone. Because freedom is where true warmth lies. 

The pain that you feel now is nothing compared to the liberation you can have. I’m sorry, but there is no end. There is nothing waiting for you on the other side of your heartache. Until you give up, you will run your blood dry, trying to water soil that lacks the seed to blossom. You can’t force someone to feel a certain way, and that isn’t anyone’s fault — especially not your own. So stop hoping for something that you know, deep down, isn’t real.

How could I give up so easily? Sometimes, letting go is the first act of true love, not just for them, but for yourself. Every day, you put on a show, covering your face with a mask — one that you think looks good to them. Small actions have to be calculated because if you mess up once, you fall off the tightrope. Lovelorns, lost in their circus act, forget their true self. If it was actually meant to happen, you wouldn’t need to constantly worry whether you’re good enough — the right person will see your worth without you needing to prove it. The right person will hear, even when you aren’t singing.

So find “beauty” in your own song — I assure you that it’s beautiful. You just need to try and listen.