I’m looking out the window, watching two children play by the lake. Maybe they’re siblings—a brother and his little sister. The boy, a bit older, perhaps six, throws stones into the water. After each throw, he jumps with joy, as if he’d just won the Olympic Games. At first glance, it’s sweet. But when I look closer, I see him repeating it like a machine, unaware of his little sister, who is quietly trying to catch his attention.
The lake around them shifts gently. The surface ripples with light, but he doesn’t see it—his eyes fixed only on the stones. The girl, much younger, maybe three, takes in the world around her. She longs for him to notice. She hands him pebbles, trying to help with what she believes matters to him. But he sees only one thing.
In this small moment, I see a mirror of our time. Even as children, we learn to chase after things that fill us only briefly, while the world slips quietly through our fingers. What will we leave behind? Something that truly filled our hearts—or something that faded into nothing?
Like that boy, I sometimes find myself spinning in the same loop. Passing face after face, searching for the one that might be mine. I search and compare, and often I ask: What if someone better comes along? We live in an age where beauty is an idol and perfection our goal—so we keep comparing, until the real things drift away.
Where did the love of our ancestors go—the love that stood firm in a world without guarantees? When laws didn’t protect, when people feared for their lives and rights, men and women knew they had only each other. And they knew that, come what may, they would face the unknown side by side.
Today, we often forget what truly matters. Relationships become exchanges, where each protects their own. We enter with hesitation, as if expecting the end from the start. But where did the tenderness go? The quiet affection that once bound us? Why build families if trust is already missing?
Love, once our lighthouse in the storm, now gets lost in a sea of endless choices. And only when time begins to run out—when we sense that our chance for real love is fading—do we begin to see its worth. Only… is it already too late?
Those of us who long for love that is pure and selfless often hide behind silence. Instead of speaking honestly, we wear masks—afraid of being misunderstood. And so, when we should speak truth, we fall quiet.
But what if we find the courage to speak? Could it free us? Maybe. Maybe not. These moments often end with a phrase that binds us further in doubt. And yet—isn’t it better to hear “I’m sorry, I don’t feel the same,” than to wander in silence, never knowing?
Truth hurts. But within that hurt lies a quiet beginning.
Let’s not wound others with silence. Let’s speak.
And maybe—just maybe—what we have will become something real.