Samuel Leighton-Dore

I challenge you to find a happily monogamous friend who doesn’t nurse their fair share of dating battle scars. It’s a romantic war zone out there, and we’re only able to settle down once we’ve lost a few figurative limbs.


Life’s not a race. Love’s not a race. Stop competing.

The ink to a pen, the feather to a wing, the star to a galaxy; we’re specks of dust caught in the howling winds of a desert storm. Together, we turn the sky red.

I suspect it wouldn’t be such an issue if Instagram actually showcased the truth; if it showed your ex vomiting over a toilet seat or lying, bloated, in the feverish grip of a hangover.

It’s walking to the wine shop while listening to that song you love and buying the second-cheapest bottle of wine — because even though you have no money, you deserve to be treated.

Humans are, after all, connected by mutual experiences of hurt and triumph. We resist it because we’ve lost sight of the beauty in simply being.

Because most people quit. Most people let the silence press them down, dim their screaming passion to a dull drone. We mustn’t let it.

We love and therefore, we want — and the subject of our affection will either love and want us in return, or they won’t.