hopeful romantic
on valentine's day and love.
I know love is real because I exist, and I am full of it. I have always been a hopeful romantic, not just about love, but about life itself. The world is my love story, and I am both the poet and the muse.
After all, I am loverarchives. I’ve carried this name like a locket over my heart for years, a testament to my devotion to chronicling my life as my own historian, to capturing the ephemeral, to adoring existence itself. My life is a mosaic of the loveliest fragments. My camera roll is a museum of the minute details that make my days feel sacred: a cocktail napkin the precise shade of dusk-kissed roses, the ribbon on a gift bag curling, the stillness of a puddle cradling a perfect reflection of the moon. I collect beauty the way others collect trinkets.
I don’t chase romance because it finds me, threading itself into the fabric of my life in the smallest ways. Love is everywhere—woven into the golden glow of streetlights on rain-drenched evenings, in the scent of an old book whispering stories of the past, in the laughter between friends on a night that feels like it could last forever. The love I desire is out there because I give it freely, scattering pieces of my heart into the world like stardust.
I see the world not just as it is, but as it could be. The whimsy, the tenderness, the aching loveliness of the ordinary—I see it all. I am an optimist to the point of absurdity, a believer in goodness even when it proves me wrong. I have wept over love letters that were never meant for me, felt my heart ache at the sight of an old couple holding hands like they never stopped being young. I root for strangers, for whispered love stories in coffee shops, for the idea that every serendipitous moment might be the prologue to something extraordinary.
I dream of happily-ever-afters, of fairies with gossamer wings and stardust woven into the wind. I believe in the kind of love that turns the speechless into poets and the cynics into dreamers. I believe in soulmates, not just in the romantic sense, but in the way certain people feel like home the moment you meet them. I love the thought that we are all wandering pieces of a cosmic puzzle, drawn together by some unseen gravity, finding the ones who fit just right.
When I was younger, I wrote a poem titled Dreamer With Insomnia, a love letter to my relentless tendency to romanticize existence, and it still holds true eight years later. I knew how Romeo & Juliet ended—it was etched into the prologue, their fate sealed before the first breath of dialogue—but I still wept in my 10th grade classroom as the final scene unfolded. I ache for unfinished stories, for books left open with dog-eared pages, for letters that will never be sent. There is something profoundly beautiful about the almosts, the what-ifs, the fleeting moments that slip through our fingers like grains of sand but leave behind the warmth of sunlit days.
I love to live and live to love.
Life itself is the grandest romance that even the greatest screenwriter could never create—every breath, every sunrise, every song that makes your chest ache is part of the story. Love is not confined to people; it lingers in the air and melody of life. It exists in the small, quiet ways the universe tells us we are alive. The heartbeat of the world is a love letter, and I read it in every moment. Life is romance—unfolding, breathtaking, endlessly poetic.
