Growing up, I was what you might call a late bloomer in the realm of romance. My first kiss happened the night before I embarked on my college journey, a milestone my friends had already checked off their lists, many even having established high school sweethearts. College brought more attention from guys, yet this attention was fleeting, rarely progressing beyond casual encounters that left me feeling more like an option than a priority.
From a young age, the concept of love, especially A Love So Romantic, captivated me. By third grade, my pink diary was filled with elaborate stories about my current crush, each page detailing our imagined interactions. This wasn’t just puppy love; it was a deep-seated yearning. Love was my first thought in the morning and my last before sleep claimed me. While wedding bells weren’t necessarily the focus of my daydreams, I often retreated into a world of fantasy, envisioning married life and even the simplest moments of a shared morning routine. These visions played like a movie reel in my mind each night.
This intense desire for a love so romantic felt inherent, as much a part of me as my own heartbeat. As a teen, poring over magazine horoscopes, I discovered astrology seemingly validated this deep longing, suggesting it was “written in the stars.” As a Pisces, the zodiac’s twelfth sign ruled by Neptune – the planet of dreams, intuition, and fantasy – I learned that we are often characterized as dreamers and, indeed, hopeless romantics. For us, anything less than a transcendent, all-consuming, soul-merging connection often feels insufficient. Astrology resonated deeply because it acknowledged and affirmed this unseen, deeply romantic part of my nature.
Despite this profound yearning for a love so romantic, actual romantic relationships remained elusive for years.
Moving to New York City post-college marked a shift. I began experiencing real dates and indulged in the exciting possibility of a future with each new man I met. There was the record executive encountered at a holiday party – perhaps he’d whisk me away to the Grammys? But he disappeared after six weeks, a classic ghosting. Then came the commercial director, interested only in a casual fling. I then developed a crush on the charming Russian barista from my local coffee shop. We spent two months together, but deep conversations about feelings were always off the table. When the coffee shop changed ownership, I even ventured on a few dates with the new owner, only to be ghosted after our second outing.
