Love as possibility, not possession
good things can exist
If I ever met someone like them in the same city, I think I’d treat it as something serious—maybe even pursue a relationship.
What surprised me most was loving for someone I wouldn’t normally notice. They weren’t the most charismatic in the room or the most talented in the crowd. I’ve always been drawn to charisma and intelligence, but over the years,I’ve realized those traits often belong to a showman—full of flair, but light on substance. They talk well, they entertain, they sell, but they fail to deliver.
From being around this person, I learned two things about myself:
First, I don’t give a fxxk on how “hot” someone is. And I don’t care much about their aura either. What matters to me is kindness, the capacity to love, and the ability to care for others. Why do people always hope I’ll end up looking like someone from a magazine?
Second, love wears many faces. Mine is probably gender-blind—maybe even species-blind. So, love for me isn’t inherently sexual. It becomes an option only when a deep level of intimacy is reached, whether romantic or not.
Our encounter wasn’t marked by intense passion, but by a quiet recognition of compatibility. It felt easy to love and be loved. Communication came naturally. No games.
You might think it sounds boring, but I’ve come to realize that the romantic stories we see in Korean dramas are often built on unrealistic longing with a traumatic agenda orchestrated by one or both parties. Sometimes, even the lover gets sacrificed just to create that beautiful version of the story. If that’s the price, I’d rather choose the quiet kind of love—one without fear, where tenderness doesn’t need tragedy to shine, and where protection is not a plot twist, but a promise.
Being seen as an attractive person, I’ve become wary when people are drawn to that side of me. Esther just wants to be Esther—not “hot Esther” all the time. That’s exhausting. Can I just wear pajamas and still be seen?
So when someone treats me as just myself, I feel at home. At peace. I didn’t even notice how deeply I’d grown connected—of course I love them. Why would I even question that?
In circles of brilliance—Taiwan, Minerva, Silicon Valley—I’ve watched as commitment grew scarce, and emotional depth thinned into performance. So when I met someone who moved with quiet loyalty, humble, and care, it struck me like a bell in still air. While I embodied ambition, curiosity, and adventure, they chose something slower, deeper.
I saw them as the bride’s best friend—a bond of over a decade, shining through time. I saw them trade sleep for service, attuned to every flicker of need, every unspoken ask.
Would I ever do that? I couldn't even stay with my own family, though they desire to live with me.
Selfishly, I just want to be me. I want to become me.
So when I met someone who chooses to care—not loudly, not once, but quietly, day after day—I was in awe.
It’s not the grand gestures that move me anymore,
but the quiet, unwavering decision to choose every day.
I don’t see that commitment in the Bay Area. I don’t see that in most of my friends. We’re all too busy trying to become ourselves—or something greater than ourselves.
And though our moment was brief,
its beauty wasn’t in holding on,
but in the revelation that something I dream can exist.
Not a possession,
but a possibility.
Maybe not in San Francisco.
But somewhere—if I keep looking,
and keep soft enough to see it.