"I know I haven't been in any relationship yet." The words echo in the hollow of my mind, a confession whispered to the patient silence. Is it a failing? A lack? Perhaps. But inside, a stubborn spark refuses to dim. It tells me that I'm not chasing just any love, but the love. The one that feels like finally coming home.
"I haven't met the right girl, but I will meet her." It's not arrogance, but a deep-seated belief. A conviction that somewhere out there, a destiny awaits. And when we finally do meet, the narrative won't be one of star-crossed tragedy.
Laila Majnu, Romeo and Juliet, Heer Ranjha, Sohni Mahiwal... their names are synonymous with passion, yes, but also with sorrow. Their love stories are etched in tears; legacies of loss. "They have tragedy," I think, and a defiant hope swells within me, "But my love with the right person will be success."
It will be immortal, not in the fleeting fame of dramatic death, but in the quiet strength of daily devotion. It will be an example, not of fiery destruction, but of patient building. A testament that love, true love, can endure. That it can thrive. That it can succeed. A testament to the fact that love does require sacrifice but not the sacrifice of life. It requires sacrifice of ego, anger and bad habits.