The Ruin Script

i’m 21. when i was twelve, i thought this age would already belong to someone else’s hands. we all did. back then, love was a timeline—partner at twenty, engagement at twenty-five, marriage at twenty-eight. it felt certain, almost guaranteed. innocence made it simple. we didn’t know yet how easily life bends plans until they no longer resemble what we imagined.

i’m 21, and most of my friends are in love. some are genuinely happy in their relationships, while others are happily deluding themselves with their crushes. some are pretending, some are begging to be kept, some are cheating while calling it complicated, some are gaslighting themselves into staying. i belong somewhere in between.

i’m 21, and i’ve witnessed enough heartbreak to recognize its patterns. i’ve listened, observed, and learned. i’ve given advice shaped by watching relationships unfold and unravel. countless stories, countless tears, yet people still return to love like it has never wounded them before. hope, i’ve learned, is persistent.

i’m 21, and i still don’t fully know what love means to me. i have standards, but not the kind meant to chase perfection. they are markers—details i want present if i ever choose to walk into uncertainty with someone else. they were formed through preference, observation, and the quiet ache of seeing what happens when care is absent. these standards are not expectations; they are necessities.

i’m 21, and i push people away. when someone tries to court me, i say i don’t practice courtship. not because i don’t believe in it, but because i see how easily it turns into performance—sugarcoated gestures, curated versions of the self. who shows their truest form while still trying to be chosen? so before anyone steps too close, i raise my walls—not out of fear, but awareness.

i’m 21, and i find relationships inconvenient. not in a careless sense, but in a realistic and practical one. to me, love feels like a negotiation, a partnership, a long-term commitment. time, presence, effort, planning—these are currencies i already invest in myself. i’ve learned how to exist alone, how to build without leaning. inviting someone into that space isn’t impossible, just something i don’t take lightly.

i’m 21, and i only demand what i can already offer. nothing excessive, nothing unfair. if i can give it to myself, i expect it to exist between us. and when the minimum is not met, i leave—quietly. i don’t bargain or wait to be disappointed twice. if intentions are stated clearly; respecting them is a choice.

i’m 21, and maybe relationships aren’t for me right now. or maybe they are, just not in the form everyone insists on. perhaps solitude is the longest relationship i’ve committed to—and the most peaceful. i won’t deny that sometimes i long for someone, but the feeling passes quickly. a brief softness, then clarity returns.

i’m 21, and i don’t believe being alone is the same as being lonely. i refuse the idea that fulfillment requires a partner. my peace is not temporary. my silence is not empty. i am not incomplete just because i stand alone.

i’m 21, and i’m still young. the road ahead is long, unwritten, and unhurried. i’m allowed to be unsure and still choose myself. and if love ever finds me, i hope it doesn’t stay on the surface. i hope it knows how to dive. i am not a shoreline meant to be admired from afar, but an ocean—layered, quiet, demanding depth. details matter to me. depth always has.

and if love cannot meet me there,
then i’ll stay here—steady,
and at peace.

author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— 21st of december, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.