Today, as I write this, I am consciously breaking a promise again—a promise I made to myself and to all of you. I promised I would never write about love. Not because I didn’t believe in it, but because I always felt I didn’t have the right to. I thought that without experiencing love firsthand, my words would lack the depth, the raw authenticity that love demands. I was afraid my perspective would always be secondhand, shaped by the exaggerated grandeur of Bollywood movies—where love is painted in absolute devotion, a singular existence shared between two people, filled with butterflies and rain-soaked confessions. I always felt I was merely a spectator, and spectators have no right to speak of what they haven’t lived.

But here I am, breaking that promise. And I think it’s because I’ve begun to look at love differently. Maybe it’s because of my last piece, or maybe it’s because I finally read “The Forty Rules of Love” by Elif Shafak. Or maybe it’s just life—it has this strange way of making you understand things you’ve never experienced. I realized that love doesn’t just exist between two people in a romanticized, all-consuming form. Even if you haven’t lived it, you can still feel it—in the air, in moments, in spaces between people. Love has a way of seeping into you, uninvited, even when you stand as an observer.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize how love itself has changed—or at least the way we perceive it has. It’s almost as if love has transformed with time, like it has adapted to the chaos of the world we live in today. There was a time when love was shown as something pure, rigid and absolute. It was about finding the one, giving them your everything and letting that love consume you, yet simultaneously set you free. It was fiery, passionate and almost holy in its intensity. That was the kind of love the world praised—the love that burned you and set you ablaze.

But today, love feels different. It’s more fluid, less absolute. It no longer demands to belong to just one person or one idea. It’s scattered—like fragments of glass reflecting in different directions. And perhaps that’s why it feels more confusing now. We no longer associate love with just romance; it’s in friendships, in fleeting moments, in conversations that make you feel at peace, in the silence you share with someone. Love today feels like something you stumble upon, not something you chase. It’s no longer about someone giving you wings to fly—it’s about finding a sky of your own and figuring out how to soar.

But here’s the strangest thing—despite love becoming more fluid and accessible, it somehow feels hollow. Or maybe that’s just me speaking as a spectator. It’s like love today has lost the grandiosity it once held. It no longer feels like a burning passion that consumes you entirely; instead, it’s a subtle, background noise that provides comfort but not necessarily depth. Earlier, love was rigid—but it gave you the freedom to feel. Now, love is loose—but it leaves you feeling a little empty, like you’re holding water in your hands, only for it to slip away.

And I don’t know if that’s a bad thing. Maybe it’s just the way the world is evolving. Love has become less about losing yourself in someone else and more about finding yourself through them. It’s less about being consumed and more about being understood. But in the midst of that, it also feels like we’ve reduced love to something shallow. It’s no longer the grand, fiery force we once knew—it’s quieter, more subtle and almost transient.

And I guess that’s the irony—sometimes, the shallowest things carry the deepest meanings. Maybe love was never meant to fit into one definition or one experience. Maybe it was always meant to change—to shift, to adapt, to be confusing. And maybe that’s exactly how it’s supposed to feel. You lose yourself only to find yourself again. You get burned only to learn how to heal. You feel hollow only to understand depth.

So maybe I was wrong to think I couldn’t write about love. Maybe you don’t have to experience it to understand it. Maybe love is not meant to be understood at all—only felt, in whichever absurd, confusing and fragmented way it comes to you. Maybe love was never about finding the one. Maybe it was always about finding yourself—through them, despite them or without them.

And I think that’s exactly why I broke my promise today.