When Love Becomes a Wish
“Love, at its best, should be a partnership — a shared journey where both people are equally invested in staying close, even when things get hard.”
There’s a kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come with a loud, crashing end. It’s not the fiery conclusion of a screaming match or the dramatic slamming of doors. It’s quieter than that, more insidious. It doesn’t leave in a blaze of arguments or shattered promises. No, this kind of love fades slowly, like a sunset you didn’t see happening until the sky was already dark.
You feel it in the smallest things — like the weight of their silence, the way their laughter doesn’t reach you the way it used to, or the slow withdrawal of their touch, which once brought you so much comfort but now feels cold and distant. You try to hold on, even though you can feel the threads slipping through your fingers. It’s not a grand, dramatic exit; it’s more painful than that. It’s a slow drift, like watching someone you care about float further away, and you’re stuck in place, wondering if they even realize how far they’ve gone and how much they’ve left you behind. And the more you reach out, the less they seem to notice.
You’re left in that haunting space of trying to save something that’s already unraveling, piece by fragile piece. You start to notice that you’re holding on tighter, but they aren’t holding back. That realization — that slow, agonizing awareness — hurts in a way you never expected. You thought love was enough, that your heart could somehow make up for the distance growing between you, but love doesn’t work like that. It can’t be carried by one person alone, no matter how hard you try.
This is the kind of love I’ve been thinking about lately — the kind where everything looks fine on the surface, but underneath, there’s a current pulling you apart. You don’t want to admit it, and you try to push down the gnawing feeling that something’s wrong. But that fear starts creeping in more and more, doesn’t it? It’s like waking up from a dream you don’t want to end, but no matter how hard you try, the edges of that dream are already fading, slipping out of your control.
It’s in the little things that break you first — the missed goodnight texts, the distracted glances, the way their mind seems to be somewhere else, anywhere but with you. You start wishing for things that used to come naturally: the easy conversations that once flowed without effort, the way their eyes lit up when they saw you, the warmth that made you feel like home. And those wishes? They start to consume you. You wish for conversations that are no longer there, for laughter that feels forced, for intimacy that now seems like a memory. You hold onto the hope that maybe they’ll see how much you’re hurting, how much you still care. But love that requires wishing isn’t really love at all. It’s an illusion, something you’re grasping at when the real thing is slipping away right in front of you.
And maybe they don’t mean to hurt you. Maybe they’re just as lost as you are, so caught up in their own world that they don’t see the way their distance is breaking you. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, does it? The sting is still real. You feel it in the way their smiles don’t hold the same warmth, in the way their eyes glaze over during conversations that used to light up the room. Their absence hits harder when they’re right there in front of you, and you’re left asking yourself over and over again: How did we get here?
You start to wish for things to go back to the way they were. You wish for that feeling when their love was enough to fill the room, when their laughter made you feel like you belonged. You wish for the simple conversations that used to make you feel seen, heard, and understood. But as time passes, those wishes become heavier, like trying to hold onto sand that’s slipping through your hands. And it starts to dawn on you that those wishes, once so full of hope, are now only fantasies, distant memories of what used to be.
There’s a line in the song that inspired this post: “You’re drifting
You’re so easily drifting
Still, your hands are full of wishes.”
It struck me deeply because it captures the heartache of being close to someone who seems miles away — someone who could give you everything but is too far gone to realize what you need. It’s as though they hold all the pieces to make you whole again, yet they’re so lost in their own distance that they can’t reach you. They’re full of promises that never seem to come true, holding onto a future that always feels just out of reach, and you’re left wondering when, or if, they’ll ever stop drifting.
The pain comes from the slow realization that love can’t just exist in your hopes and dreams. Love isn’t a wish you make and wait to come true. It has to be something real, something present, and above all, something mutual. The most excruciating part of this is when you’re still trying — still clinging to the memory of what was — while they’re letting go, piece by piece. You feel like you’re carrying the weight of the relationship alone, as they slip further into the distance, no longer meeting you where you need them.
It’s tempting, isn’t it? To hold on just a little longer. To believe that maybe, if you love them harder, if you give them more, they’ll turn around and see you again. You find yourself thinking, If only I could do this one thing better, maybe they’d stay. But the truth is, love that needs to be chased, love that has become a wish, isn’t love that’s going to last. You can’t force someone to feel what they don’t or to return to a place they’ve already left behind. There comes a point when you have to face the truth: love isn’t supposed to be this hard. It’s not supposed to be something you wish for. It’s supposed to be real, present, and reciprocated. But when one person is drifting, lost in their own life, and the other is left clinging to a fading connection, it’s no longer about love. It’s about survival.
It’s the hardest lesson to learn. Sometimes, despite all your effort, all your hope, love fades. It slips through the cracks, and no amount of wishing can hold it together. And in those moments, you realize that what’s hurting you most isn’t their distance but your refusal to let go. Because love — real love — should never make you feel like you’re the only one holding on. So maybe the hardest thing of all is learning when to let go, even when you’re not ready, even when it feels like tearing yourself apart. It’s learning that you deserve more than whispered promises and fragile hopes. You deserve something real. You deserve a love that stays — not because you’re holding it together, but because they’re holding it with you.
For me, writing about this is cathartic. It’s a reminder that love, at its core, should never feel like you’re the only one carrying it. If you’re stuck in that place where your heart is bruised and your world is unraveling, maybe it’s time to face the truth: sometimes, letting go is the most loving thing you can do for yourself.
As painful as it is to let go, sometimes love requires the courage to move forward, even if it means walking away. Because love shouldn’t be about longing for what once was. It should be about growing together, and knowing that, at the end of the day, you won’t be left standing alone with your hands full of wishes.
