To the Me Who Thought Love Would Always Be Easy
Dear Me in College,
You still believe love should be easy.
Of course, life is different now. College isn’t like high school, where everything revolved around the same hallways, the same people, the same predictable routines. Now, your days are dictated by deadlines, group projects, and sleepless nights trying to keep up. There are new friends, new responsibilities, new paths to figure out. And for the first time, your worlds are no longer the same.
But somehow, you still find your way back to each other. Even with different schedules, different priorities—you still make time.
Weekends are sacred. You reserve them for coffee shop dates where you pretend to study but mostly end up talking. She tells you about the people she’s met, the crazy things she’s tried, and you laugh, shaking your head because of course Sam would find herself in the middle of some wild story. She listens to you ramble about your classes, your plans, your stress, and even if she doesn’t always understand, she still listens. And in those moments, nothing feels different. It still feels like you and her.
That should be enough, right?
You don’t mind adjusting your schedule to fit hers, don’t mind being the one to plan when she forgets. You know she’s busy, just as you are, but love means making time. And you do—because she still matters, because this still matters.
But some nights, when the calls get shorter and the texts take longer to reply to, a small thought sneaks in.
When was the last time she was the one who made time?
You shake it off. You remind yourself that life is overwhelming for both of you, that things are just different now—not worse, just different. And as long as you keep choosing each other, nothing else should matter.
Right?
With quiet reassurance,
Jules
Dear Me in College,
It’s funny how love can feel both constant and unpredictable at the same time.
Sam is still the same girl who makes everything exciting, the same girl who drags you into things you’d never try on your own. She’s spontaneous, vibrant, and endlessly curious, always searching for the next big thing. And you? You’re still the planner, the one who keeps things in order, the one who makes sure there’s structure to all the chaos. It’s always been that way, and it has always worked.
But now, your differences are more obvious.
You’ve started scheduling study sessions and carefully blocking out your week, while she’s jumping from one opportunity to the next without a second thought. She’s trying new things, joining organizations, saying yes to last minute plans, meeting people who don’t need a calendar invite to hang out. You admire her for it. You always have. But there’s an ache you don’t know how to name when she tells you about another night out, another story where you weren’t there.
And still, you try.
You say yes to plans that make you anxious. You let her pull you into places you’d never go alone. You sit through loud, crowded gatherings where you feel out of place, just because she wants you there. And in return, she tries, too. She listens when you talk about your classes, shows up outside your dorm with coffee when she knows you’ve been drowning in work. She still texts you good morning, still reaches for your hand when you’re walking side by side.
You’re both trying.
But there are nights when she’s out and you’re in your dorm, staring at your phone, wondering if you should text first. You tell yourself she’s busy, that it doesn’t mean anything.
There are moments when she laughs at something someone else said, and you wonder if they understand a part of her that you don’t.
There are times when you look at her and realize you are standing still, while she is running toward something bigger.
But love is about growing together, right? That’s what you tell yourself. That’s what you believe.
And so, you hold on.
With steady hands,
Jules
Dear Me in College,
Do you ever notice how, in the beginning, love feels effortless? Like breathing, like instinct—like something you don’t have to think about.
And then one day, it isn’t.
It starts small. A missed text, a canceled plan. You tell yourself it’s just life getting in the way—assignments, exams, responsibilities piling up. You’re both just busy. It’s normal. It’s fine.
But then it happens again.
She calls while you’re knee-deep in deadlines, and you let it ring. You tell yourself you’ll call her back later, but later turns into tomorrow. Tomorrow turns into she stops calling first.
She’s out late again, and you try to stay up, but exhaustion wins. The next morning, she tells you all about her night, her voice full of stories you weren’t there for. You listen, you laugh where you’re supposed to, you pretend you don’t feel like an outsider in her life.
You both still try.
She shows up with food when you’re too stressed to remember to eat. You make time for movie nights even when you’re drained. She sits through your rants about your professors, and you nod along when she talks about people you don’t know.
But it’s different now.
Conversations used to stretch endlessly into the night, but now there are pauses you don’t know how to fill. There was a time when you reached for each other without thinking, but now, there’s hesitation.
It’s not that the love is gone. It’s just… changing.
And maybe that’s the scariest part.
Because love is supposed to grow, right? But what if growing means growing apart?
Still holding on,
Jules
Dear Me in College,
Love is a choice. That’s what you tell yourself. And today, you chose her.
It had been weeks of mismatched schedules, of conversations cut short, of feeling like your worlds were slowly pulling away from each other. You were growing in different directions, but neither of you wanted to admit it. Not yet.
So today, you made an effort.
You texted first. Not just a quick how’s your day?, but a real invitation. A let’s go somewhere, just us. You knew she missed that and you missed it too. She replied instantly, excitement spilling through her words. It made your heart clench a little, knowing how long she’d been waiting for you to make the first move.
The café she had been raving about was warm and lively, the kind of place that felt like her, loud, full of energy, alive. She was in her element, waving at people she knew, effortlessly slipping into conversations. And yet, when she turned to you, her attention was yours completely.
You listened as she talked about her day, her new friends, the projects keeping her busy. And she listened, too. She asked about your writing, about the things you never got the chance to share because your schedules never aligned.
It felt like before. Like high school. Like those days when you were inseparable, when time bent in your favor, stretching endlessly for the two of you.
So when she asked, “Come with me tonight?” it wasn’t just a question. It was hope. It was an invitation back into her world.
It was another last minute plan, another thing that didn’t fit into the schedule you’d built for yourself. Your instinct was to say no, to remind her that you still had work, that you couldn’t just drop everything. And maybe that’s why she rushed to say, “Never mind,” before you could even respond.
She smiled. She always smiled. But this time, it was different.
You saw the flicker of disappointment, the moment she tucked away her excitement like she was used to it now. Like she had already prepared herself for your no.
You wanted to take it back. You almost did.
But the moment passed too quickly. She changed the subject. You both laughed a little too easily. And when she kissed you goodbye, she lingered just a second longer, fingers curling into your jacket like she was holding on to something slipping away.
Love is a choice.
Today, you chose her. You chose to show up, to make her feel like she was still your priority. And for a little while, it worked. You both believed that if you just kept choosing each other, everything would be okay.
But love isn’t just about today, is it?
It’s about tomorrow. And the day after that. It’s about every single no you give when she needs you to say yes.
And you wonder—how many no’s before she stops asking?
Still trying,
Jules
Dear Me in College,
Do you remember the first time she made you feel small?
Not intentionally. Not out of cruelty. But in that quiet, accidental way people do when they don’t realize they’re leaving you behind.
It happened on a night that should have been perfect. You had finally managed to clear your schedule—no assignments, no deadlines, just an entire evening set aside for her. You were excited. You even wore the shirt she once said she loved on you, the one she jokingly claimed made you look dangerously dateable.
You arrived at the bar where she said she’d be, the one she always dragged you to despite your protests that it was too loud, too crowded. But for her, you went. You always went.
She didn’t see you at first.
She was laughing—head tilted back, eyes crinkled, completely in her element. And beside her, someone new. Someone who made her laugh in that effortless, easy way. Someone who didn’t have to schedule time to see her. Someone who fit into her life without trying.
When she finally noticed you, her face lit up. She pulled you into a hug, kissed your cheek, introduced you to her new friends. This is Jules, she said, like you were just another part of her world, something constant and reliable. And maybe that was the problem.
You stayed for a while. You tried to keep up with the conversation, nodding and laughing at all the right moments. But there was a sinking feeling in your chest, the kind that told you you were playing a role in a scene you didn’t belong to anymore.
And then, she was pulled away—someone needed her opinion, someone else wanted to dance with her, someone kept stealing little pieces of her attention until you weren’t sure if she even remembered you were still there.
That’s when you left.
You didn’t make a scene. You didn’t even say goodbye. You just slipped out, walked back to your dorm, and stared at your phone, waiting for a message that never came.
It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t anything, really.
But that night, something shifted.
And for the first time, you let yourself wonder: What if choosing her isn’t enough if she’s already outgrown the space you fit into?
Holding onto something slipping away,
Jules