Cart Full of Has-beens

There’s a lot said about love — sometimes in whispered sentences, sometimes in entire chapters. We've all heard the advice, made our lists, checked the boxes, and hoped that someday, we’d find what everyone keeps talking about.

But when the day comes to step inside,the dream of those perfect lullabies often feels more like a trip to grocery store than a fairy tale.

I did walk into love with a wedding aisle in mind — like we all thought we would. But in reality, I walked in just like everyone else: pushing a cart, collecting hope, and shedding glitter on some shelves along the way, one aisle at a time.

But these days, love feels sacred only in theory. In practice, it’s becoming folklore — a bedtime story passed down with a soft sigh.

Something our mothers dreamed of, and our grandmothers wept for.

Now, it's reduced to memes and messages left on “read.”

No matter what aisle I walk through, my list keeps changing.

But somehow, I never seem to find what I came looking for.

Aisle 1: Crushes and Crashes

There’s something about first times — they’re all sugar rush and sparkly wrappers.

Like any kid in a candy aisle, I rushed toward the shiny thing everyone was buzzing about. After all, it looked sweet. Everyone said it was. So I picked up what I thought was special — my very first crush.

These are beginnings — the place where your childhood tea parties and imaginary weddings meet a little taste of reality. It’s glittered with innocence, dotted with hearts and arrows from that special pen. Full of hope and sweetness you can’t get enough of.

I made that crush mine. I wrote his name in my notebooks, whispered it to my bedroom walls, wore it like glitter on my sleeves. He wasn’t a person — he was a feeling. All-consuming. A lollipop you can’t stop licking, even when your tongue starts to sting.

But as any dentist will tell you — sweets don’t last.

And neither did we.

It ended as quickly as it began — a sugar crash I didn’t see coming.

Sweet kisses turned bitter. We both outgrew the wrappers we once wore.

That was my first taste of the idea that maybe — just maybe — there’s no such thing as “happily ever after.”

Still, with a hopeful heart, I moved on.

Aisle 2: Fresh Pickings

There’s a special kind of promise in morning produce — that fresh, ripe smell, like the beginning of something new. But here’s the truth: if you don’t know what you’re picking, you might end up grabbing something that looks good but spoils fast.

That was college.

This was the experimental phase — testing the waters, tasting what the world of love had to offer for real. Like any game, you level up. You trade the glitter pen for a phone. Add a photo, craft the perfect “u up?” text that might last a night or, if lucky, a semester.

The aisle was full. Soft smiles, clean sneakers, confident voices. You squeezed hearts like avocados, hoping to find the perfect ripeness. But they never told us that just because something’s ripe doesn’t mean it’s ready.

Some loves lasted the length of a shared playlist.

Others didn’t make it past the morning after.

In college, love wasn’t always about forever.

Sometimes, it was just someone who replied before 2 a.m.

Aisle 3: Frozen Feelings

Just like food that spoils without a freezer, love at this point felt like it needed preservation — or protection.

By now, I’d had my fill of firsts.

I'd played the dating games, swapped playlists, shared hoodies.

We left our prints across lecture halls and library nooks, believing we’d find “the one.”

But the ocean of options started to feel cold.

At this point, I wasn’t searching for an ocean anymore — I just needed a pond.

Because “happily ever after” was starting to feel like “never after.”

Some people stayed sealed — emotionally frostbitten, tucked away in plastic emotions, waiting for the “right time” to thaw.

They looked good from afar, dressed in ambition and curated charm, but beneath it, they were still frozen.

And I was tired.

I wanted warmth.

I wanted someone to defrost with me.

But love doesn’t grow in the cold. And most weren’t ready to melt.

So I checked out, again.

Quietly. Carefully.

Aisle 4: Canned Commitments

Remember when you said you’d never settle for canned goods?

Well… here we are.

By now, nothing surprised me. This was the phase of acceptance. You start to wonder — is this really it? Should I just lay down and hope one day it opens?

The flashy wrappers were gone. The sugar rush, long faded. What’s left?

Love that’s been preserved. Canned. Long-shelf-life, slightly dented, but real — if you're willing to open it right.

These people? They’ve been through the storm.

Soaked in heartbreak, seasoned with experience, marinated in years of trying and failing.

They’re not spontaneous sparks.

They’re quiet fires. Slow cookers. Sunday stews.

You just have to adjust your expectations.

Not the love story you dreamed of,

but maybe one that could keep you warm.

Especially in the desert, when nothing else is growing.

Aisle 5: Out of Stock

And now?

Now I don’t think it’s even on the shelves.

Maybe it’ll return someday — after restocking, after the world slows down, after we remember what love is actually supposed to feel like. Something wild. Something tender. Not just filtered and shrink-wrapped for show.

Because lately, everything feels overly packaged, labeled, and sterile.

Nothing grows wild anymore.

Nothing is watered patiently.

The idea of love — natural, growing, unprocessed — feels like a lost art.

So, I’ll check out.

I’ll come back when:

The candies stop cutting my tongue.

The frost begins to soften.

The fresh goods are truly ripe.

The cans open just a little easier.

The promises stop tasting like preservatives.

And love is no longer something you have to bargain for on a shelf.

Then — maybe then — I’ll return.

Not just to browse.

But to choose.

To carry it home with both hands, carefully.

To plant it.

And watch it grow.