Incomplete

I feel incomplete.
I can’t remember when it began exactly—only that it’s been there, quiet and constant. A subtle emptiness that lingers beneath moments of joy, achievement, even routine. I learned to live around it. I thought I understood it well enough to keep it contained.

And then came her.
I never thought I would long so much for someone, and yet here I am—fallen for a person who doesn’t reciprocate even an inch of what I feel. I thought I knew myself well enough to avoid this kind of mess. I knew what I wanted. I knew what I was looking for. And yet, all that wisdom led me here. I bent my rules.

Is this a phase? Or am I unwell?
Nothing interests me at the moment except this. Why this, of all things—something I have no control over? I gave it everything I could. All of it, in vain.

A beautiful apartment with large windows.
A clean kitchen where I’d cook whatever I want. Lazy afternoons with video games, nights spent making music with friends. Maybe we’d upload a few tracks. There’s a small home theatre, an infinity pool for evening swims, spontaneous trips to the beach—scuba diving in Bali, perhaps.

These thoughts should excite me. But they don’t.
They flicker for a moment, then fade into dullness. There’s an absence—a gap where a person should be to share it all. She didn’t create that gap; but she gave it a face and a story to wrap itself around.

I’d probably fall for someone one day—if everything clicked.
But right now? No one. Not even the ones who once captivated me. And that unsettles me. None of them were flukes; they were exactly the kind of people I’ve always been drawn to. The type I’d still describe if someone asked me today.

So why did this one take over?
“She’s goofy,” I told myself. And she is. She’s too pretty—so much so that I rarely notice anyone else. But there are other beautiful women out there. Smart ones too. Ambitious women, the kind I’ve always admired. So… have I just not met the right one yet?

I’m 23. A strange age.
I’ve been working for two years, and most people say this is where life smooths out—academics are done, you’ve got a decent job, what more do you need? My mom says she’s looking for “good women” herself; a conversation I try to avoid. I’m pretty sure it’s because she doesn’t fully trust my choices. A few others have echoed the same: find someone who’ll care for you, and you for them.

And they’re not wrong.
People have noticed the loneliness settling in. There’s so much I want to do, and I can’t shake the feeling that having someone beside me would make it all easier.

But again—
I’m 23. I don’t know if this is desperation talking. And I can’t be making decisions just because I’m feeling off. Besides, it’s not like the right person will appear tomorrow. If anything, searching for this “right” person has given me too much grief, too many times. So I hesitate.

This obsession hits me unpredictably.
Sometimes it’s longing. Sometimes love. Sometimes lust. But underneath all of it is that same old incompleteness. It had existed before her, and it remains after. For now, I use her name.

My days once felt brighter when she said the right words. Now that it’s faded, I have fewer reasons to look forward to a day. Perhaps, those reasons were never fully hers to give - but I gave myself no choice.

How long will this go on?