Falling for a space.

 Love, I have learned, is not found. It is circled.

Round and round I go; dignified, composed, pretending I am not slowly unraveling; scanning rows like a hopeful romantic at a wedding buffet. Everyone else seems settled. Parked. Certain. And I?

I orbit.

You search. You hope. You circle.

There is vulnerability in signaling left. It is an announcement to the world: I believe. I believe something will open up. I believe the universe has reserved a space with my name invisibly painted on it.

And then, there it is.

An empty parking spot.

Bathed in fluorescent glory. Unoccupied. Waiting. The heavens part. Indicators blink like wedding bells. For a brief, reckless moment, I understand destiny.

I glide in with reverence. Perfect alignment. Engine off. Silence. This is not convenience. This is affirmation. This is the universe whispering, “you are chosen.”

Temporary, but magical.

Because deep down, I know the truth. This spot is not mine. It was never mine. I am merely a chapter in its long history of short-term commitments. Before me, others occupied it. After me, someone else will reverse into its embrace without even knowing I was here.

And yet, I fall every time.

The heartbreak is subtle. You leave. You walk away. You glance back once, like a dramatic protagonist in a low-budget Bollywood romance. The space remains. Indifferent. Ready to move on within minutes.

Maybe this is why I relate to parking spots. I don’t crave permanence. I crave arrival. The relief of finally fitting somewhere, even briefly.

Savage truth?

At least a parking spot is honest. It doesn’t promise forever. It simply exists; open, available, and clear about its boundaries.

And yes, I just compared a parking spot to humans; don’t @ me!

Happy Valentine's, everyone!