Why Do We Love the Ones Who Make Us Feel Least Loved?

Let’s begin with the obvious: some of us were simply built different. And by different, I mean wired to fall in love with people who treat us like foot rugs from NOVO—slightly discounted, questionably stitched, and always replaceable.

You'd think we’d aim for warmth, tenderness, a hint of decency. But no. Our emotional GPS reroutes straight to the nearest emotionally unavailable person, preferably with a tragic backstory and 13 unread messages from us.

We love them because they don’t clap when we win, they don’t check if we ate, and they only reply with “k.” In short, ideal partner material.

Psych majors call it anxious attachment. Your tita calls it “kulang ka lang sa palo.” But we know the truth: it’s probably our inner child cosplaying as a martyr. Some of us were not raised with affection; we were raised with conditional love and jokes that hurt a little too specifically during family reunions.

We say things like:

“but I see their potential” or

“they’re just going through something.”

Yes, they’re going through your bank account, your mental health, and your last ounce of dignity.

Still, we persist. Because what’s more stupid than staying loyal to someone who doesn’t even know your birthday? Panindigan ang Katangahan at Kamartyran.

The pain becomes familiar. Predictable. Almost... romantic. Like telenovelas, except you're both the bida and the punching bag.

And the bar is so low, it’s underground. Did they finally reply after three days? Wow. “Effort.” Did they accidentally brush your hand?

Here’s the real kicker: the kinder people feel boring. “Too available,” we say. As if availability is a flaw and not the literal bare minimum. But no, we crave tension, longing, the drama of being ignored for hours just to receive a “sorry, nakatulog ako” at 2 AM.

We don’t want love.

We want to win love.

Earn it.

Suffer for it.

Because we’ve somehow equated pain with authenticity. “If it’s difficult, it must be real.” No, beshie. That’s just a trauma loop with pretty lighting.

And when it finally ends—usually with a cold fadeout or a new profile picture with someone else—we spiral in silence, mutter “sana all” through clenched teeth, and swear we’re done.

But give it a week.

A new blank face.

A new emotionally detached heartthrob.

And our dumb, heart says: Let’s try again.

Comments

A Blank Verse Poetry

I ran this morning. Gray sky, nothing special. Weather that doesn’t force you to feel anything. Usually, I wander without purpose. Today, something stopped me. Time is a trap. We pretend it’s limited, but it isn’t. So we rush through it—steps, choices, life—until it all blurs. The small things disappear. The smell of earth, the quiet air. Gone. A song got stuck in my head. “I’ll stop the world and melt with you.” Unwanted. Persistent. How did it get in? Maybe fate. Maybe nothing. I don’t believe in destiny, but here I was—stuck in the sound, stuck in a loop. The world paused inside me. I didn’t move. The day went on. Hands trembled—not from connection, but from the weight of existing. Scars on skin—maps of past failures. Nothing clean, nothing clear. I touched a cheek. No softness. Smoke? Habit? Grip loosened—like sanity slipping. Wanting to let go, but afraid of the emptiness that follows. I kissed a cheek. A stupid move. A laugh broke the silence. A glitch. A mistake. Coffee a...

The Slow Death of the Familiar Lie

The 2025 elections just ended. Not with fireworks, not with riots—just the quiet unraveling of yet another chapter in our nation’s long and complicated dance with democracy. There’s something different in the air this time. Something subtle, like the way dusk falls before you even realize the day is gone. You feel it before you name it: a shift. Not seismic, perhaps not even visible to the untrained eye. But there, like a whisper at the edge of a crowded room. People have grown wiser. And no, this isn’t naive optimism. It’s not the kind of blind faith that wears campaign colors and chants slogans. It’s the kind of wisdom that comes from repeated heartbreak—from choosing hope too many times, only to be betrayed by men in suits and smiles. From believing in change only to see it morph into the same old trapo politics dressed in newer fonts. “Pain is a brutal but effective teacher—especially in a country where memory is often the first casualty of every election cycle.” But maybe ...

The Tension Between Hope and Despair

This is w here the light breaks just to drown. Hope isn’t some pretty thing. It’s a slow burn that keeps you awake at night, fooling you with a whisper, “Maybe this time.” It digs its claws in, even when everything screams you’re done. Hope’s the hook you can’t shake, even when it’s tearing you apart from the inside. Despair doesn’t wait politely. It crashes in like a storm, cold and sharp, and it doesn’t care if you’re ready or not. It doesn’t dance with hope—they fight. It’s brutal, ugly. Despair wants to swallow everything whole, leaves no room for mercy. There’s no peace between them. It’s a war you didn’t sign up for, but you live it every damn day—grasping for that fragile flicker, even as the darkness tightens around your throat. You hold hope like a lifeline but feel despair pulling the knot tighter. No balance. No graceful dance. Just a mess of broken promises and shattered dreams. Hope keeps you chasing ghosts; despair waits, patient, knowing it will win. And the worst p...

Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Search This Blog