Andrey Kim G. Malabed
I was once 16—a foolish one. I chased love, craving it like a hungry dog. I used to believe it was easy, quick, and free of problems, just like the movies. A fairy tale. A pilgrimage that one takes to find true love, to find company, to find “the one.”
My naivety got the better of me, and I succumbed to the idea that teenage love would teach me what true love is. Often, while watching Korean dramas, romance movies, and TV shows, I grew deeply fond of the idea. The intimacy, the comfort of having someone by your side, the thrill of saying “I love you” to someone who mattered most—got me on chokehold.
In 12th grade, I met a girl. She was beautiful, kind, and smart with eyes that seemed to hold the universe. I loved the way she smiled, the way she spoke, the way she’d excitedly talk about her day. I was in love. I followed her on every social media platform—Facebook, Messenger, Instagram, and Threads—constantly checking her through her stories, notes, and posts. Before I knew it, my impulsive side got the better of me, and I made the first move.
We got along, and before I knew it, we were in a “situationship.” I was new to it—I had no prior experience and did not know what to do. I had only seen this kind of love in movies, but I tried my best. I loved her deeply. In every competition, I supported her. Whenever she had a bad day or was in a rough mood, I did everything I could just to cheer her up through words, advice, and sometimes food and flowers. On the days she felt unlovable, I showered her with affirmation, took her out to dates, and spent quality time with her. I did things I never thought I was capable of, just for her.
And it hit me. Love was no longer the same. It once brought me comfort, but now it only lingers, quiet, unfamiliar, and heavy in a way I couldn’t explain. That day, I contemplated. We were moving so fast that I never stopped to think if this feeling was real, not just a passing infatuation. I began to distance myself from her. My head was full of questions I had no answers to.
But a line from a movie got me: “Infatuation fades when things get quiet, but what I feel for you only grows louder in the silence. That’s how I know this is real.” In silence, I came to a realization. I had always longed for her presence when I had no one to talk to. She always brought out a version of me that was sweet and caring. I always longed for the warmth she made me feel. And I knew then that this was real love.
My decision was firm, I will love this girl for eternity. A promise was made—If I am ever reborn, I will love her over and over again.
And just when things were about to get better, she became cold, distant and unsure. I tried everything to fill the cracks, to light the void that was bothering her. I changed, but none of it worked. She only grew colder and more distant. I begged. I swallowed my pride just to keep her. But at the end of the day, her choice was the one that mattered—we parted ways.
The days that followed were grueling. I suffered. I could not eat, I could not talk, and I could not believe that the girl who brought me firsts now parted ways with me. Love was cruel. I kept waiting for the feeling to make sense again, as if love would explain itself if I just endured long enough. But it never did.
And then I remembered the very thing I started with. Movies, dramas, and stories lie about teenage love. Not because love is fake, but because they never show what happens when it stops being what you imagine. They never show the silence after the “forever,” or how quickly something so intense can become something so distant.
I used to think I was living a story worth telling. Now I realize I was just living something I did not yet understand. I did not fall into a fairy tale. I fell into my own expectations of one.
Looking back, I realize I did not love her perfectly. I loved her intensely. I gave everything I had, even the parts of me I had not learned how to hold yet. And maybe that was the problem. Not that I loved her too little, but that I believed love alone could stop two people from slowly becoming strangers. I thought devotion meant permanence. I thought effort meant outcome. I thought if I loved her enough, the ending would change. But love does not work like that. It never did.
Now I understand something I once refused to see. Love is not proof that something will stay. It is only proof that it mattered while it was there. And if there is one truth I cannot escape, it is this: Movies, dramas, and stories did not lie about teenage love being beautiful.
They just never warned me it could end quietly, with everything still feeling real inside you, even when it is already gone outside of you. Love is not proof that something will stay.
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