Love can feel perfect and still leave you gasping for air.

I used to believe our love was flawless. The way Lana held me, laughed at my terrible jokes, leaned on me as if I were her anchor—it felt perfect. Warm. Safe. Enough to make the world outside disappear.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Dex,” she said one afternoon, her head resting lightly on my shoulder. I smiled, my chest swelling with a warmth I thought was ours. Mine and hers.

But the truth slipped in quietly, like a shadow stretching across a sunlit room. She called me her brother, laughed at my blushes, traced her words with casual affection I could not return without trembling.

“Dex… you’re like the brother I never had,” she said one day, eyes bright and unaware. I forced a laugh and nodded, while inside, a storm churned.

It was perfect love, yes. For her, not for me. The unbalanced affection pressed on my chest, heavy and relentless. Every smile, every gentle word, every touch that set my heart aflame—it was platonic for her, romantic for me. And the more I let it in, the more suffocated I felt.

I began noticing the little things. How she leaned on me when she was tired, shared her thoughts and secrets, laughed at my puns. All of it was care—tender, smothering, overwhelming. I loved being close to her, yes. But I wanted more, and that desire twisted inside me like a storm trapped in a jar.

“I… I just wish things could be different,” I muttered one evening, the words tasting bitter. She looked at me, puzzled, her smile soft and unknowing.

“Different how?” she asked, curling her fingers around mine. I almost pulled away, almost said the truth, but the words lodged in my throat, fragile and dangerous.

I thought maybe I was selfish for wanting more. Maybe I should be grateful for the warmth she gave, for the closeness that was enough for others. But I couldn’t. Every laugh, every brush of her hand, every late-night conversation reminded me that my heart was waging a war she did not know existed.

Love like this is cruel. It gives and gives, leaving one heart gasping while the other moves on, untangled, unaware. Yet I could not stop craving it—the warmth, the light, the perfection that was never mine to hold.

I realized then that love could feel perfect and still be impossibly painful. That sometimes the deepest connections are the ones that leave invisible scars on your soul. I loved her like a fire burning inside me, but for her, it was only home. Only family.

Even now, after understanding that her perfect love was not mine, I still reach for it. I still let it wrap around me like a blanket I know I cannot keep. And maybe, in some quiet, broken way, that is enough.

Some loves are meant to be felt, not held.

The Frontman