For the longest time, I told everyone that I didn't care much about things like surprises, flowers, or romantic gestures. I used to say, "I'm not that type of person." I convinced myself that I didn't need grand displays of affection, that I was okay with the quiet kind of love — the kind that stayed behind the scenes, unspoken but steady.
But the truth is… I lied.
I think I started lying to myself because it felt safer. Wanting too much often leads to disappointment, and disappointment is something I've known too well. So I told myself that I didn't need to be celebrated, that I didn't need someone to make me feel special. I pretended that I was fine with being the one who always gives — the one who remembers birthdays, writes long messages, plans meetups, and checks in on people even when no one checks on me.
But deep down, I've always wanted to be seen. To be loved loudly.
Sometimes, I wonder when exactly I started shrinking my wants. Maybe it was the first time someone forgot my birthday and I laughed it off like it didn't matter. Maybe it was when I surprised someone and saw no effort in return, yet told them, "It's okay, I didn't expect anything." Or maybe it was the countless times I handed people the metaphorical camera, hoping they'd take a picture because they wanted to capture me — not because I asked them to.
There's something heartbreaking about pretending you don't crave love in its loudest form. You start to convince yourself that being "low maintenance" is strength. That needing less makes you easier to love. But it's a lie — a quiet, painful one.
I like receiving flowers. Not the expensive kind wrapped in silk ribbons, but the ones someone sees and thinks, "This reminds me of her." I like letters written on paper, even if the handwriting is messy, because it feels like a part of them is pressed into the ink. I like random texts saying, "I was thinking of you." I like photos — not the ones I ask for, but the ones taken when I don't even notice. I like seeing my name saved with a heart next to it, or hearing someone talk about me proudly.
It's not vanity. It's not neediness. It's the simple desire to be wanted — without asking for it.
I've always been the strong one, the understanding one, the one who says, "Don't worry about me." Maybe it's because I've learned to survive without too much from anyone. Maybe it's because I've always known how to love deeply, even when that love wasn't returned in the same way. But sometimes, late at night, I feel that quiet ache — the one that whispers, "I wish someone would try for me the way I try for everyone."
People often mistake independence for a lack of desire. They think that just because I can handle life on my own, I don't need gestures of affection. But I do. I crave softness too. I want someone to remember how I take my coffee, to surprise me with little notes, to hold my hand in public without hesitation. I want to be someone's favorite thought — not their afterthought.
It's funny, isn't it? How we teach ourselves to expect less, and then get praised for it. "You're not like other people, you're so chill." But I don't want to be chill. I want to be chosen — loudly, clearly, unapologetically.
Maybe it's because I've spent years being the quiet one. The one who gives love in the smallest details — remembering what someone said weeks ago, making playlists, sending reminders, showing up. I've always believed love is in the details. But I think I forgot to save some of that love for myself. I forgot that I, too, deserve to be celebrated.
There are days when I still act like it doesn't matter. I smile and say I don't like surprises. I tell people I prefer quiet birthdays. I say I don't care if they post about me or not. But inside, there's that little voice again whispering, "But you do care. You always did."
Because it's not really about the flowers or the pictures or the words. It's about the thought behind them. It's about knowing that someone remembered, that someone chose to make me feel special — not because I asked, but because they wanted to. It's about being loved in a way that doesn't need translation.
Sometimes I think of how beautiful it would be to be loved by someone who pays attention. The kind of love that notices the smallest changes — when I'm quiet, when I'm tired, when my smile doesn't reach my eyes. The kind of love that says, "You don't have to be strong today. I've got you." That's the love I dream of. The one that sees me even when I'm hiding behind my strength.
And maybe that's what I mean when I say I want to be loved loudly. Not necessarily with noise or grand gestures — but with intention. With effort. With consistency. Loud love doesn't always shout; sometimes, it shows up quietly but unmistakably — like a hand reaching for mine first, like someone remembering my favorite scent, like a message sent just because they missed me.
I want to be loved like that. Boldly, but sincerely.
Not because I need validation — but because I've spent too long convincing myself I don't.
I think that's what growing up has taught me — that wanting to be loved deeply isn't a weakness. That craving affection doesn't make me less independent. That it's okay to want to be someone's reason to smile.
Maybe I used to lie because I was afraid of being disappointed again. But I've realized that hiding what I want doesn't protect me — it only keeps me from being truly known.
So, I've stopped pretending.
If I love, I'll say it. If I miss someone, I'll tell them. If I want to be held, I won't act like I don't. I'm learning that honesty — even when it's vulnerable — is a form of courage.
And if someone asks me now, "Do you like surprises? Do you like flowers?"
I'll smile and say, "Yes. I do. I always have."
Because the truth is — I want to be loved softly and loudly, quietly and fiercely. I want love that doesn't need reminders or requests. I want love that feels like home — where I can finally stop pretending that I don't want to be chosen.
So yes… I lied.
But not anymore.