The why behind the words: In this love-starved world, so many of us—especially women—are quietly aching for connection. At the very centre of who I am, beneath the layers I show the world, I know this truth: I was made for love. Real, deep, soul-stirring love. The kind that doesn't flinch at my mess or run from my darkness. The kind that sees me—truly sees me—and stays. I think most women feel it, this silent hunger. We long for someone we can trust completely, someone who won’t pull away when we show them the worst parts of ourselves—the brokenness, the shame, the dreams we’ve buried so deep we hardly remember them anymore. We want someone who will hold our secrets like sacred things and never, ever turn them into weapons. Someone who will choose us, again and again, not in spite of who we are, but because of it. And when we can’t find that in our real lives—when the man we hoped would be our safe place turns cold, or indifferent, or just… absent—we turn to stories. We find refuge in the pages of romance novels because, in them, we find the love we still dare to hope for. The kind of love we secretly wonder if we’ll ever be lucky enough to feel in the real world. Romance fiction isn’t just a fantasy. For many women, it’s a lifeline. It’s a reminder that love like that might exist. That maybe, just maybe, someone out there is capable of looking past the surface—the tired eyes, the stretch marks, the Armor we wear just to survive—and seeing something breathtaking. We don’t read romance because we’re naive. We read it because we’re brave enough to still believe. We believe in the possibility of being loved wholly—mess and all. We believe in a man who will cherish us not only when we’re dolled up, but also when we’re undone—raw, crying, vulnerable. We crave a love that holds us close in our ugliest moments and whispers, You’re still beautiful to me. We want more than just passion—we want presence. Consistency. Truth. We want to be someone’s person. Their choice. Their forever. And the truth is, we’ve wanted that since we were little girls. We dressed up in princess gowns not just because we liked the sparkle, but because we dreamed of a prince who would fight for us, who would see us as precious, as worth the journey. We grew up, but that dream never really left us. It just got quieter. Men… they want the same thing too, I think. To be the hero. To be enough. To be loved, fully, without needing to wear the mask of strength all the time. We’re all walking through this life carrying the same ache. The same longing. We all just want our own happily ever after. Until that day comes, it’s the romance author who steps in. Who breathes life into characters that give us something to hold on to. Something to believe in. A love so tender, so wild, so true that it makes us feel, just for a little while, like we’re not alone in our longing. Like maybe… love really is worth waiting for.