a rationalist with a crush

can you believe in soulmates and still read the terms and conditions?

I have spent my entire life existing somewhere between an Austen novel and a well-worded risk assessment. I swoon over handwritten letters but also aggressively track my credit score. I believe in grand, sweeping, cinematic love stories, yet I once ghosted a man because he used “u” instead of “you” in a text. (A crime of the highest order, if you ask me.)

My friends love to tell me that my standards are “too high.” That my realism borders on cynicism. That I will never find a grand, all-consuming, poetic love story if I keep dismissing perfectly good men for things like poor grammar or an overuse of exclamation points. (Sorry, but if every text feels like it’s being screamed at me, I’m out.) They say I need to “give people a chance.” I say that if I let one red flag slide, next thing I know, I’m dating a man who doesn’t believe in decorative pillows.

It’s an exhausting contradiction: the hopeless romantic and the hardened realist, coexisting in one deeply overcaffeinated woman. One side of me wants to run through an airport for love; the other knows that TSA would never allow it and that running in public is deeply humiliating. One side believes in ‘meant to be,’ the other knows that sometimes you just end up sitting next to someone attractive at a wedding, and that’s really all it takes.

The world tells us we must be one or the other. Either you believe in fate, serendipity, and love at first sight, or you scoff at rom-coms and roll your eyes at people who say things like, “When you know, you know.” There is no in-between. But I refuse to choose.

I want to believe that love is rare and magical, that some people are meant to find each other, that timing can be poetic and cosmic all at once. I also want to acknowledge that attraction is science, that love is often about proximity and shared values, and that sometimes, the greatest romance of your life is just a series of well-timed text messages and mutual decision-making.

And maybe, just maybe, I want to believe that I can have it all—that love can be movie-worthy and logical. That I can have butterflies and a five-year plan. That someone can be both wildly romantic and know how to separate their lights and darks in the laundry.

This paradox extends beyond love, too. I romanticize everything—a bookshop on a rainy day, the way light catches a wine glass at dinner, the crinkle of an old love letter I found at a flea market. But I also know that life is often tedious and that romance isn’t a constant, but a moment—something you have to create and notice before it disappears.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to love stories—the ones in books, the ones in movies, the ones told to me by strangers at bars. I collect them like souvenirs, little reminders that love can look like a thousand different things. Some love stories are wild and all-consuming, some are quiet and steady, and some are just fleeting moments that leave a mark. I’ve learned that love isn’t about finding someone who sweeps you off your feet in a grand, dramatic gesture—it’s about finding someone who makes the small, ordinary moments feel significant.

I have seen enough to know that love isn’t always a grand gesture. Sometimes it’s just remembering how someone takes their coffee. It’s picking them up from the airport when you really don’t want to. It’s sending them a song because it reminded you of them. It’s a hundred tiny things, stacked on top of each other, that say: I see you, I know you, and I am here.

So, can you be both? Can you be a hopeless romantic who still understands that love doesn’t solve everything? Can you believe in fairytales while also acknowledging that even Cinderella and Prince Charming probably had to argue about rent and whose turn it was to take out the castle trash?

I think so. In fact, I think it’s the best way to be. To let yourself be swept away, but only a little. To fall in love, but also read the fine print. To believe in romance, but also bring a backup plan. To write the love story—but never forget who’s holding the pen.

xo,

liv

P.S. If you ever see me running through an airport, know that it’s not for love—it’s because I miscalculated boarding time.