He texted last night, after weeks, maybe months of silence. Just a few words, nothing dramatic. But it was enough to stir something in me. Enough to feel like hope.

It felt like a flicker of hope. A hope that maybe there is someone who is out there who holds me in their mind. Someone I could, even momentarily, rely on. And for a second, I let myself believe in the possibility that maybe I am not as alone as I often feel.

But when my brain takes over, like it always does, it reminds me that a flicker doesn’t run home. You cannot build a life around brief sparks of affection that come and go at someone else’s whims. As pragmatic as my brain is, my delusional heart reminded me with quiet insistence that this flicker, however temporary, is beautiful. Yes, it doesn’t stay for long, but it lights up the dark just enough to get by.

People around me call it toxic love. They throw new-age-love-language jargon at me, breadcrumbing, attachment wounds, trauma bonding. They say that I deserve better. That I deserve more. More consistency, more presence, and more love that doesn’t need to be chased, love that doesn’t need to be earned. Not a temporary flicker but a permanent flame that is going to be there for me always, without me having to ask or wait, like that background music that is always there, making everything feel more alive. My pragmatic brain agrees with them. I often think of my brain as my loyal companion who wants to protect me at all costs, even if it means cutting off warmth before it can burn. It loves me like no one else does. And yet here I am, being pulled toward a flicker.

Sometimes I wonder if it is less about the person and more about familiarity. There is a subtle comfort in familiar patterns. The anticipation, the attention, the disappearance, the waiting, and the return. It feels like this is something I know how to survive, something I don’t have to learn or explain to myself. A script I don’t have to rewrite. This made me question what love is, not just romantic love, but also the love shared with their family and friends. To find clarity, I tried going old school, reaching for philosophy to make sense of it all. What better than a historical philosophy text like ‘Nature of Sympathy’ by Max Scheler? I assumed that this text would give me an understanding of the philosophy of human connection and would help me locate what I am looking for. But Scheler asked more questions than he answered, reminding me that not all truths are found in books.

When books didn’t help, I went to a different archive, a space filled with knowledge and no judgment. Chat GPT. An algorithm, but also a space where I download my thoughts without feeling seen too closely. Once, GPT told me something that stayed with me for some time, “Unless you let someone in, you will never know what a flame feels like”. But what if letting someone in means being expected to burn just as brightly in return? What if I do not have it in me? What if the idea of sustaining something, of giving and being available constantly, feels more like duty than love?

That is the paradox I sit with. The flicker doesn’t ask me for anything. It simply appears, lights something up, then fades. And even though it is on its terms, at least, I am not bound to it. The flame, on the other hand, promises warmth but with responsibility. You might say I am afraid of commitment, and I avoid responsibility. But it’s not that. It is just that when responsibility starts to feel like an obligation, something about love gets lost in it.

I always wonder whether I will ever allow myself to choose or if I will keep responding to life. Is this longing for flickers a failure to choose better for myself, or is it a quiet rebellion against a world that insists that love must be constant, unshaken, and forever?

I do not have an answer yet, maybe I never will. And I am learning that might be okay.