It sounds simple. Ordinary, even. But isn’t it tragic how so many wars both monumental and mundane begin with this one, quiet need? The need to be loved. To be seen. To be understood. Wars between nations, between lovers, within our own minds. All sparked by the ache of emptiness.

From the moment we are born, we begin seeking. We don’t yet understand the world. We don’t even understand ourselves. But something in us reaches out crying for a touch, a voice, a heartbeat. A presence. It’s not taught. It just is.

And somewhere along the way, love becomes more than a comfort. It becomes a definition. Of who we are. Of how we see ourselves.

It’s strange how the smallest changes can shift everything.

Like when someone stops saying “I love you” as often not all at once, but gradually. First, it’s daily, then weekly, then not at all. The words don’t leave with a bang. They fade. Quietly. And so does the certainty. That’s how love turns into doubt. And doubt, if left unanswered, into loneliness. Not through explosions but through silence.

We spend years trying to fill spaces some we recognize, some we don’t. Through relationships, through achievement, through constant motion. But often, we’re just looking for someone to meet us in our rawest form. To say: I see you. You matter. You’re not too much. You’re not too little.

And when we don’t find it?

We improvise. We cope. Sometimes in beautiful ways through art, music, friendships. And sometimes in destructive ones. Infidelity, lies, escapism. I’m not defending betrayal, but I’m trying to understand it. Not all cheating stems from lust. Sometimes, it’s a desperate search for significance. A scream from a hollow space. A longing to feel real again.

Because that’s what emptiness does it terrifies us. And in our panic, we fill the void. Somehow. With something. Even if it hurts us. Even if it hurts others.

And maybe that’s why we keep reaching.

Not because we’re weak, but because we’re wired for connection. We crave meaning where there’s a gap. We look for warmth where it’s gone cold. We touch others hoping they’ll touch something back in us something real, something alive.

Love isn’t just a feeling it’s how we anchor ourselves. And when it’s missing, we drift. That’s why even the most rational of us do irrational things in the name of feeling something. We’d rather risk the wrong kind of closeness than sit alone with the ache of not being needed.

But the truth is, no matter how independent we claim to be, we’re shaped by the people who hold us and the people who don’t.

The spaces we carry. They’re not signs of failure. They’re just invitations. To reach. To build. To heal.

We are all just humans, after all.

Still a little unaware. Still a little unknown. Still learning how to hold ourselves. Still trying to find pieces of love tiny, sacred moments to fill the spaces we carry.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.