Monologue : I Am So Cold
I am so cold.
Not the kind of cold that comes from winter or empty rooms, but the kind that settles in the chest and never fully leaves. The kind that makes silence loud. When it comes to love, I feel hopeless—like I missed the lesson everyone else learned naturally. I watch people hold hands, swear forever, fall apart, try again… and I feel like a ghost observing something meant for the living.
Love only exists in the books I write. There, I can shape it. Control it. Break it and mend it with intention. I let my characters argue about what love is and what it ain’t, because they’re brave enough to ask the questions I’m tired of carrying. They love recklessly. They hurt loudly. They heal eventually. On the page, love makes sense—even when it’s messy.
But out here? Out here, everything feels unfinished. Promises sound temporary. Touch feels distant. Words don’t land where they’re meant to. I keep waiting for something to click, for warmth to return, for meaning to line up the way people swear it does. Instead, I’m left with this quiet disbelief, wondering how something everyone wants can feel so unreachable.
Nothing in this world makes sense to me anymore. Maybe I’m not broken—maybe I’m just tired of believing in versions of love that never seem to find me. So I write. Because on the page, I can at least pretend I understand it. And for a moment, the cold eases… even if it never fully goes away.
I am so cold.
Not the kind of cold that comes from weather or empty rooms, but the kind that settles in the chest and refuses to thaw. When it comes to love, I feel hopeless. Love only exists in the books that I write—where I get to argue about what love is and what it ain’t, where I can give it structure and purpose, where it at least pretends to make sense.
Out here, I have to wait. I have to wait until people feel fully ready to be one with me, and that isn’t fair. I’ve been waiting my whole life—waiting to be chosen without hesitation, waiting to be met where I stand instead of asked to stand still. Waiting has become a language I never agreed to learn, yet somehow speak fluently.
Why does it feel like the things I wanted so badly as a kid don’t matter to me anymore as an adult? Maybe because those dreams were built on hope, and hope gets tired when it keeps showing up alone. I don’t crave the fairy tales now. I crave quiet. I crave distance. I just want to be left alone.
I always have to understand people more than they understand me. I bend, I listen, I translate feelings that aren’t even mine. I hold space until there’s none left for myself. And somehow that’s called love—me shrinking so someone else can stay comfortable.
Nothing in this world makes sense anymore. So I write, because on the page I don’t have to wait. On the page, I’m not asking to be understood—I already am.
Experiencing this kind of emotional coldness—a persistent chill that settles deep in the chest rather than from external sources—is more common than people might realize. When love feels elusive or incomprehensible in real life, many find refuge in creativity, especially writing. Writing allows us to analyze, control, and even redefine love in ways that reality often denies us. It can be incredibly cathartic to put into words the complex feelings of hopelessness and longing, and by doing so, we start to make sense of what seems senseless. In my own journey, I've found that living through the frustrations of love can lead to profound personal growth, even if it doesn’t feel that way in the moment. Waiting for someone to truly see and accept you can be exhausting, but this waiting period also offers an opportunity to deepen your understanding of yourself and what you truly need. Sometimes, love as portrayed in fairy tales or stories sets unrealistic expectations, and our adult experiences teach us to crave peace and quiet as much as passion. The idea of "shrinking" oneself to keep others comfortable is a poignant reflection on boundaries and self-respect. True love doesn't demand self-erasure or compromise of one’s identity but encourages growth and mutual understanding. If you ever feel lost in translating others’ feelings more than your own, it might help to pause and reassess how much space you’re allowing for your personal emotions. Ultimately, writing or sharing these feelings—whether in journal entries, stories, or forums like Reddit—creates community and reminds us that we're not alone in our experiences. Each story penned down is a testament to resilience and the enduring human spirit that searches for warmth, even in the coldest moments.
