Love Vines Wrapped in Loneliness

By Dipa Mahbuba Yasmin

I see myself in fragments, sketched out in the quiet corners of my mind—an image that refuses to let go. Tendrils of love, like creeping vines, twist their way up ancient, stoic trees, suffocating them in a desperate grip. Love has become parasitic, feeding on the vitality of others, yet never able to sustain itself. It hovers like a mist, shimmering with false promise, but its essence is fleeting. Is this what I’ve become? A creature forever reaching, needing, depending on someone else to keep me steady? Will the strength I hold on to crumble beneath my weight, leaving only hollowed ruins where something solid once stood? Will I be cast aside, forgotten, as my grip loosens and I become nothing more than a memory?

I sketch the story of my existence like an autobiography tangled in the web of Maya, illusion. I find myself naming the figure I’ve become—the Love Vine Lady. I’ve found myself around every soul I’ve ever touched, hoping for connection, for companionship, for anything to fill the void inside. But what can I possibly offer when I feel so utterly drained, so empty? Who would willingly grow beside something so lifeless, so lost?

The conversations in my head are endless—a relentless spiral of thoughts, an equation I can never quite solve. I’ve abandoned the books I once sought comfort in, their pages now painful reminders of how far adrift I’ve drifted. There was a time when life seemed simpler, more bearable—a happy childhood, followed by a confusing adolescence—but now I feel suspended in a void, trapped between the fading warmth of youth and the cold inevitability of what lies ahead.

I still question. Still doubt. Who am I? What am I searching for? Growing up, when my body shifted in ways I didn’t understand, when the world around me buzzed with restless energy, I remained still—a pool of water while others were waves crashing against the shore. Love was always present, always around me, but it never felt right. It never ignited me, never pulsed through my veins. For me, it was a phantom—a soft breeze that whispered through my soul but left no trace.

“This melancholic reflection delves into my solitary struggle for belonging in a world that often overlooks my asexual identity, evoking deep questions about love, self-discovery, and the delicate balance between connection and independence.”

Dipa Mahbuba Yasmin

That phantom love remains. For years, it has haunted me—formless, untouchable—wrapping itself around my heart like a ghost that refuses to leave. A love with no body, no warmth, no fire—just a hollow presence, lingering. Even now, in this emptiness, I wonder if I’m missing something. I’ve stood in moments of beauty, watched life unfold around me, yet I remain unmoved. Surrounded by people, by laughter, by the rush of living—and still, nothing. My body, my mind—they’re alive, I know that much. But the love inside me is cold, untouched, like a flame that refuses to catch. Why don’t I feel what others feel? Why doesn’t my heart race, why doesn’t my body ache with the desire that seems to define everyone else?

I tried to outrun it, to hide from it, but life finds a way to seep in. Weddings, love songs, the endless parade of joy in others—it’s a constant reminder of what I lack. It’s as though the world exists on the other side of a glass wall, and I’m standing there, watching, never able to step through. Always the observer, never the participant.

Now, I’ve withered into something unrecognizable. A shadow of who I once was. A twisted, tangled version of myself—the Love Vine Monster, that’s who I am now. An oddity, unseen, unknown, unloved. The more I reach out, the more isolated I become. This is the kind of loneliness that doesn’t just linger—it consumes you, hollows you out until there’s nothing left. Until you fade, and no one even notices you’re gone.

I’ve come to understand that this is my battle alone. There is no rescue, no saving grace. I don’t belong to anyone—not to them, not to anyone at all. I am the smallest, the emptiest, and the one with nothing left to offer. And now, there is no one left who even cares to try.