“Please Don’t Fall In Love With Me, But Let Me Love You” by Athrav

“Please Don’t Fall In Love With Me, But Let Me Love You” by Athrav

Whenever someone said, “You’ll find someone someday,” it never made sense to me. It made me angry. It felt like they were telling me that, alone, I was incomplete. That without romance, I would always be missing something.

But I never wanted romance. And yet, I kept trying to fit myself into that mold—because that’s what love was supposed to be, right? I convinced myself I had fallen in love. After all, I had felt deeply for people before, and I do deeply care for them and want to make them feel special, I had wanted to be close to them, to never lose them. But no matter how much I tried to force it, it never felt the way others described it.

Every girl I ever got attached to was far away from me. And I kept asking myself—Why does this always happen? Was it trauma? Was I unconsciously choosing people I could never have? Was I drawn to distance because I was afraid of real closeness? But with time, I realized—I wasn’t choosing distance. I was choosing safety, and feeling emotionally secure. I got attached to people who made me feel seen, who made me feel safe. Who made me feel like I mattered. And because the world had taught me that deep love must be romantic, I believed that’s what I was feeling.

So I asked them out. Not because I desired them romantically. Not because I felt any kind of sexual and romantic attraction. But because I was scared. Scared to lose them because the world told me that if you want to stay by someone’s side forever, that person has to be your romantic partner.

But every time, something felt off. The idea of dating them didn’t excite me. It felt like a script I was supposed to follow, a role I was supposed to play. And yet, I kept trying—because if it wasn’t love, then what was it?

It took me years to finally understand that I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. I was looking for a Queer Platonic Partner.

I wasn’t searching for Romance—I was searching for a love so deep, so unshakable, that no one could question it. A connection built not on attraction, but on trust. On care. On the quiet certainty that you’ve found your person—not in the way the world expects, but in the way that feels right.

I spent so long thinking I was broken. Something inside me wasn’t working the way it should, and I was missing out on life.

Even when I discovered myself as a lesbian, I thought I had finally figured it out—finally found the missing piece. But something still felt… off. Like I was wearing a label that fit, but not quite right. I still didn’t feel like myself. Like there was something more I hadn’t uncovered yet.

But I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t missing anything.

I am Aromantic. I am Asexual.

I wasn’t searching for romance—I was searching for a bond so deep, so undeniable, that no one could question its importance. A connection where love wasn’t measured by attraction, but by trust. By care. By the quiet, unwavering choice to stand by each other—without needing society’s labels to validate it.

I wanted someone I could be completely vulnerable with. Someone who could show up at my house for a late-night dinner, stay over without it meaning anything more, and hold my hand simply because they cared. Someone who would take care of me when I was sick, call me when they felt lost, and never once ask, “But what are we?”—because we would already know.

But the world doesn’t teach us to see that as real love. It teaches us that love must come with romance. That love must fit a mold. And anything outside of that? It’s just friendship. Just something lesser.

What if I just need friendship? Why does love only count when it follows a script? Why is choosing a friend—choosing deep, unwavering companionship—seen as something lesser?

I used to wish—

“Please don’t fall in love with me, but let me love you.”

I didn’t realize it then, but this had always been my truth. I wasn’t afraid of love—I was afraid of losing it just because it didn’t fit the world’s definition.

For the longest time, I thought I was broken. I watched the people around me couple up, celebrate anniversaries, talk about soulmates. And I never wanted that. Not in the way they did.

Yes, I felt lonely sometimes. But not because I was missing something—because I was afraid. Afraid of being the only one who didn’t belong. Afraid that I would spend my life alone, not because I had no love to give, but because the world refused to see my love as real and valuable.

 I never desired what they had. What people called love—the romance, the longing, the need for partnership—it was never mine. My love was different. And for the longest time, I thought that made it less.

When I was reading “Loveless” by Alice Oseman. And as I turned each page, I felt my chest tighten, my thoughts unravel. I saw myself in Georgia—her confusion, her frustration, her desperate search for something that made sense. Every word felt like a mirror, reflecting back everything I had never been able to put into words.

At the time, I was getting attached to someone. I cared about her deeply—I didn’t want to lose her. But I was also Confused- Do I love her? Romantically? As I read the book  a thought formed in my mind:

“If thinking about something makes you feel sad and hopeless, try looking in the opposite direction—maybe that’s what is waiting for you!”

And suddenly, I understood and things started making sense to me—

I was never sad because I lacked romance. I was sad because I was forcing myself into something that wasn’t meant for me. I wasn’t looking in the right direction. My love wasn’t broken—it was just different.

But the world doesn’t see that. Society, media, even the Queer community itself—it all revolves around the idea that to love someone, you must desire them. If you don’t, then your love is seen as less.

Aromantic and Asexual people exist. And yet, we are invisible. Even within the LGBTQIA+ community—where love in all its forms should be embraced—we are often pushed aside, overlooked, forgotten.

We fight under the banner of “LOVE IS LOVE.”

But what about the love that isn’t romantic? The love that doesn’t come with desire? The love that doesn’t fit into neat little boxes? What about our love?

Love is not just romance.

Love is not just Sex.

Love is care—the quiet comfort of knowing someone will always be there.

Love is safety—the way you breathe easier around the people who truly see you.

Love is holding someone close without needing more than what already exists.

And I refuse to let the world tell me that my love is anything less than real.

This post is written by one of the winners of the writing contest on Love And Desire In All Forms in collaboration with Youth Ki Awaaz.