Holy Angel University

I think we can all relate to this, writers. When we experience love, heartbreak, longing, or any form of romance, it messes with our heads like scribbles on a page. Thoughts tangle, sentences collide, words spill out, and suddenly the draft is filled with the most chaotic form of love—feelings we swore we’d never write down, trying and failing to make sense of ourselves.

When we try to write about the weather, the clouds spell their name.

When we try to write about silence, their laughter suddenly appears.

When we try to write about the stars, their smile lights up the sky.

When we try to write about time, we reminisce about memories with them.

When we try to write about home, it is in them that we find our place.

When we try to write about death, it is the thought of them that refuses to die.

When we try to write about life, their heartbeat becomes the rhythm of every line.

The curse is not that we write about them—the curse is that we can’t stop.

Oh, and don’t even get me started talking about mine.

About my love.

My love from a school away.

My love who claims he is a simple person but has the sweetest smile in the universe, multiverse even.

I used to hide behind similes and metaphors, behind highfalutin words pulled from the dictionary, behind the vaguest lines even I can’t decipher. But with him, every word feels genuine, every sentence simplified, every paragraph concise. I don’t just write for the world anymore—I write for one person who will probably be too busy to read it.

The curse is not that he is in my words—the curse is that my words are no longer mine alone.

And maybe that’s why we write.

That’s why we are cursed to write.

Not because love makes us.

Not because love breaks us.

But because love insists on being told.

We are cursed to write through love.

We are cursed to write through heartbreak.

We are cursed to write through longing.

We are cursed to write through any form of romance.

We are cursed to write through the very feelings we swore never to write down, trying and failing, to make sense of ourselves.

The curse is not that we write about love—it’s that we write through every version of it: kept, lost, found, or unfinished.

So even if love is a writer’s curse, then let me be cursed forever, for my words have never felt more alive than when they are about you.

My dear writer, is love a curse you’re willing to bear?