Member-only story
You Can Starve My Hope, But You Can’t Kill It
What it really feels like to be single right now.
Only love is triumphant. Only the meet-cutes and it’s-such-a-funny stories that end with photos of a ring displayed against a man’s chest — like that’s a normal place to put your hand — only those outcomes hold enough awe and awww to make the cut. You don’t hear someone’s endured solitude described as a win, even though it’s ten times harder to live through singlehood indefinitely than it is to meet a partner. Really? We’re celebrating these two, the ones who split rent and bills now? I think single people who haven’t done that — ever — and can still afford groceries deserve a party. Why doesn’t the absence of love qualify as a love story? It’s still central to the narrative.
I’m 42, I’ve been single for 17 years, and I haven’t been on a date since 2018, because that’s how long it’s been since someone asked. I’ve been without welcome, consistent physical touch for over a decade, subsisting on occasional hugs from friends and the weight of my own bed linen. But we don’t tell tales like mine, they’re not romantic enough. To desire love and still have hope for it despite its complete absence for 6,205 days and counting…you’re telling me that’s not a love story? You’re telling me I’m not a stronger argument for faith in love than two people who met at the gym? I’m the one who’s lived without the most basic human desire next to the things that physically keep us alive this entire time and I’m still sane. Pop a bottle or two, good lord.
I’m not hoping for a fairy tale, I’m too grown. Love isn’t a solution or all-encompassing fix to whatever ails you. For me, it’s much more practical than that. It’s the routine simplicity of having company, of another voice in my house and another name on my mail. It’s laughter and conversation and shared meals and a physical presence that tells me I’m not alone for the scary parts, the incredible parts, or the far more frequent middle parts in between. Being alone is still being. It’s still a valid and happy life. My desire for a romantic partnership doesn’t come from feeling incomplete. It comes from being human. And despite not having it for so long, I haven’t doubted for one second that at some point love will be mine. We idolize brides. Can we also spare a little admiration for the faithful single?
