Love isn’t supposed to feel like… this.

That’s what we’re told, anyway. It’s supposed to be warm, electric—like a favorite song playing in the background of your life, something you hum without even realizing. But what if one day, you can’t hear the music anymore? What if all that’s left is static?

At first, it’s subtle. A text left unanswered for just a bit too long, the kind of pause that wasn’t there before. A kiss that feels obligatory. A laugh that—wait, was that a real laugh or just a reflex? You overthink it. You try not to. You pretend you don’t notice because if you say something, you might make it worse. (Or maybe you’ll make it real.)

Then, one day, it slaps you in the face. A sigh. A look. The way they say I love you, like it’s a line they’ve rehearsed a hundred times but don’t quite believe anymore. And that’s when you know—love’s on the rocks, and the ground beneath you feels about as stable as quicksand.

Panic sets in. Did I do this? Did they? Is it fixable? Your mind spirals through every interaction, hunting for clues like some kind of relationship detective. The text that got a one-word reply. The way they stopped reaching for your hand. That fight about something stupid—no, it wasn’t stupid, it was about something bigger, wasn’t it? You just didn’t see it at the time.

Love, people say, is work. They never tell you how exhausting that work can be when you’re not even sure if the other person wants to clock in anymore. And pride? Oh, pride is a silent killer. You sit there, waiting. If they care, they’ll fix this. If they want to, they’ll say something. But what if they’re thinking the same thing? What if you’re both waiting for a sign that neither of you are willing to give?

The thing about relationships—long-term ones, especially—is that they don’t fall apart in an instant. Not usually. It’s not an earthquake. It’s erosion. The slow wearing down of connection, chipped away by missed moments, words unsaid, tiny rejections that pile up like stones in your chest. And then one day, you wake up next to someone who used to feel like home and realize… they’re just a person. A person who might not be yours much longer.

This is where people break in different directions. Some fight. Hard. They throw out grand gestures, dramatic speeches, anything to claw their way back to what they had before. Others go quiet, numb, resigning themselves to an ending they’re too tired to resist. Some just… drift. Neither staying nor leaving, trapped in some gray purgatory where love is a memory but not a present reality.

It’s wild, really. How love—this thing that’s supposed to be the most natural, instinctual, soul-deep experience—can feel so complicated. Like solving an equation with missing variables. Like trying to hold onto sand.

But here’s something weird: sometimes, breaking is what saves it. Because love isn’t meant to be autopilot. It’s not supposed to be comfortable all the time. The cracks? The messiness? The discomfort? That’s proof that it’s real. That it mattered. That it still matters.

That’s the paradox of love—it has to be chosen. Again and again. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s uncertain. Even when you’re terrified that saying I need this to change will be the thing that makes it crumble for good.

And then there’s the other side of it. The part no one wants to say out loud. Sometimes, love isn’t meant to last. Sometimes, trying to hold on is like gripping a fraying rope—you end up with nothing but burns on your hands. Maybe it’s not about fixing it, maybe it’s about knowing when to let go. But how do you know? How do you tell the difference between a love that needs to be fought for and a love that needs to be released?

It’s not about one big moment. (Though, sure, that happens sometimes—a betrayal, a realization, a final straw that snaps clean in half.) More often, it’s quieter than that. It’s the feeling of being more yourself when they’re not around. It’s recognizing that you’re shrinking, becoming less of who you are, just to keep the peace. It’s the relief—the relief—that floods your chest when you imagine walking away.

And that’s the real gut-punch. Because if you do leave, you’re going to wonder. What if I’d tried harder? What if this was just a phase? What if I gave up too soon? But staying comes with questions, too. What if I’m wasting my time? What if this never gets better? What if I wake up years from now and realize I should have left when I had the chance?

There’s no universal answer. No guidebook. No single piece of advice that applies to every relationship in crisis. But there is this: love should not feel like walking on eggshells. It should not feel like an obligation. It should not feel like a weight you’re constantly carrying while pretending you’re fine.

So if you’re in the thick of it right now—if you’re staring across the room at someone you love but don’t feel anymore, or if you’re clutching your phone, wondering why they won’t text back—ask yourself the hard question:

Do I want to fix this? Or do I just not want to lose?

Because those aren’t the same thing.

And whichever answer you come to, it’s okay. Choosing to stay isn’t weak. Choosing to leave isn’t failure. The only mistake is staying stuck, afraid to make a choice at all.

Love is not something that happens to you. It’s something you build, protect, sometimes rebuild from scratch. And sometimes, yeah, sometimes it’s something you walk away from—not because it wasn’t real, but because it isn’t right anymore.

And that? That’s okay, too.