Let’s be honest: most people don’t care about love.
They care about performance.
About being seen as someone who loves.
They love the idea of love, but not the reality—which is far less glamorous and far more inconvenient.

People are addicted to emotional theatre.
And I don’t just mean soap operas.
I mean social media posts dripping with curated healing.
Therapy-speak used as branding.
Women declaring they’ve “transcended their trauma” while still obsessively seeking validation from a system that caused it in the first place.

It’s all just telenovela 2.0.
Only now it comes with better lighting and a hashtag.

And let’s not pretend we don’t know what this is:
It’s a refusal to do the real work.
To feel something without publishing it.
To stay in the discomfort without monetizing it.
To stop clinging to pain as a badge of honor because you have nothing else to show for your years of avoiding yourself.

People aren’t interested in love.
They’re interested in being admired for surviving.
They want to be called brave for enduring what they refuse to question.

“This happened to make me stronger.”
No, it didn’t. It made you harder.
It made you more emotionally distant.
It made you mistake control for growth.

Let’s be precise:
Love is not growth.
It is exposure.
It’s when you lose the carefully curated character and meet the part of you that isn’t noble, or useful, or pretty.

But we don’t want that.
We want love that fits our schedule.
We want connection that makes us feel impressive.
We want healing that doesn’t require loss.

So who cares about love?
The 5%.
The ones who are willing to feel without needing applause.
The ones who don’t need to prove they’re healed.
The ones who choose presence, not performance.

You want more people to break the cycle?
Then stop telling them they’re almost there.
They’re not.
They’re hiding behind words like “resilience” and “empowerment” because the truth—that they’re emotionally absent—would be too much to bear.

You want to change something?
Be the one who tells the truth:
Most people would rather repeat the trauma they know than face the emptiness they’ve avoided their whole lives.

That’s why they love the telenovela.
It’s scripted. Predictable. Full of drama but no consequence.
It gives them the illusion of depth with none of the danger.

Real love isn’t like that.
It’s boring. Risky. Unstable. It doesn’t congratulate you for showing up.
It just asks:
Will you stay now that there’s nothing left to perform?

And very few will say yes.
But those few—they’re the ones building a world where something real can still exist.