The Problem With Falling In Love Accidentally

Khánh Hmoong
Khánh Hmoong

Falling in love: it’s an accidental process. A text message received while an emotion-filled song is playing.

Timing. Serendipity. Really, it has nothing to do with fate, destiny and predefined lives. Nothing to do with “meant to be”. That’s the comforting tale we tell ourselves, as we lie afraid in our bed, worried about staying alone all our life.

But I’m not scared of being alone. Not scared of facing my thoughts or silence.

It’s easier to ignore you. Ignore your existence. After all, you’re just a romantic idea in my head. You don’t actually exist. You’re a moment. You’re an instant of bliss (if I may call it as such).

It can easily be brushed off, deconstructed, dismissed. I brought myself to reduce you to things, associations of sensations and feelings. You’re not a reality. You’re just an amalgam.

Statistically, “you” could have happened in someone else. Statistically, the chance of these various events to happen all at once is significant enough. All the factors were reunited because they were in close proximity. The things that marked my memory could have been embodied by someone truly different, anyone really, not necessarily you.

The circumstances were there. The bar, the drink, a certain state of mind and maybe a particular song doubled by the appropriate touch, the right comment that seemed wittier or more profound than it probably was. All of these accidental, but in their coincidental happening: troubling. Maybe I wanted you to be something. Maybe my will did part of the work. Your motivation did the rest. And so, you happen to be.

You are brought to existence. But you could have been someone else. You’re a smell: big deal. You’re a taste: so what? You’re a touch: I’ll find another one. No reason to fuss over things I could easily find in just anyone else.


But then again, what is the statistical chance of that event happening twice? Thought Catalog Logo Mark

I write to make sense of what’s in my head; no more, but no less. The rest of the time, I’m a normal girl living her life.

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