My issue is deeper than the love triangle. I don't believe that having feelings for someone, knowing them for years, or having a complicated history automatically makes two people good for each other.

The series seems to present intensity as evidence that they are meant to be together. But intensity is not the same thing as compatibility.

Longing Is Not NECESSARILY Love

I think this is where the BellyConrad fandom loses me. There is so much emphasis on how much they have longed for each other.

How much they have suffered.

How complicated their feelings are.

How they keep coming back to each other.

But I don't think longing automatically equals love.

Sometimes longing is simply longing.

Sometimes not having someone makes you want them more.

Sometimes the person you can't have becomes more attractive precisely because you can't have them.

So when people say, “Look how deeply Belly loves Conrad,” I don't necessarily see love. Sometimes I see a girl who has wanted the same thing for so long that she doesn't know what it would feel like to want something else.

The Childhood Crush: Love or Conditioning?

Susannah's attitude toward Belly and Conrad's relationship contributed to the idea that there was something special between them. Belly's crush was treated almost like a cute, inevitable part of growing up.

And when a feeling is reinforced for years, it becomes difficult to distinguish between “I genuinely want this person”and “I've always believed this person was supposed to be mine.”

That's what makes Belly's feelings fascinating to me. some part of her has spent years trying to make reality match the story she created in her head as a child. And those are two very different things. She was also growing up with the idea of Conrad.

“They've Always Loved Each Other” Doesn't Convince Me

This is probably the argument that convinces me the least.

“But they've always loved each other.”

Okay...(and?)

People change.

Feelings change.

People grow apart.

Someone can be incredibly important to you without being the person you should spend your life with.

A childhood crush can become a beautiful memory without becoming your destiny.

And having loved someone for years doesn't mean you owe that love a happily ever-after.

The Romanticisation of Emotional Unavailability

This is probably one of my biggest problems I had with the ship.

Conrad's emotional unavailability is often interpreted romantically.

His silence becomes “he feels too much.”

His withdrawal becomes “he's protecting her.”

His inability to communicate becomes “he loves her so deeply that he doesn't know how to express it.”

A person can have legitimate reasons for struggling emotionally and still not hurt the people around them.

I just don't think emotional suffering should automatically turn poor communication into romantic depth.

Communication: The Elephant in the Room

Let's talk about communication.

Because every time

I'm watching Conrad and thinking:

“JUST SAY WHAT YOU MEAN.”

A relationship cannot survive entirely on people interpreting each other's silence.

Belly shouldn't constantly have to figure out what Conrad means. Belly spends so much time trying to understand him.

What does he mean?

Why did he say that?

Why is he acting this way?

Does he still love me?

Does he actually want me?

At some point, I have to ask:

Should love require this much decoding?

Good intentions don't replace communication.

If you love someone, you should eventually be able to sit down and tell them what you are feeling instead of expecting them to solve the puzzle themselves.

And this is where I struggle with the idea that Belly and Conrad's relationship is automatically the superior one. Where is the communication?🤷🏻‍♂️

Choosing Herself Should Have Been a Better Option

I wish Belly choosing herself had been treated as a legitimate possibility. Belly deserves to be more than someone's love interest.

She deserves to be treated as a complete person rather than the prize at the centre of a Fisher brothers' love story.

^{Dancing in the sky}

A wise person once said, ‘Grief is like glitter. In the beginning, it’s everywhere: on your hands, in your hair, scattered across every corner of your life. You try to clean it up, to restore some sense of order, and for a while it seems like you’ve succeeded. But then, one day, you move a sofa or open a forgotten drawer, and there it is again. A tiny sparkle that catches the light and reminds you of what you lost.

It doesn’t go away completely. It settles. It becomes quieter, less overwhelming. You learn to live with it, to carry it gently. And months later, when you find a bit of that glitter tucked behind a shelf, you might smile. Maybe even laugh. Because it reminds you of love, of connection, of someone who mattered deeply.

Eventually, something will catch your eye: a photo, a favourite song, a familiar scent, and instead of pain, you will feel warmth. That’s the quiet truth about grief. It stays with you, but it changes. It becomes part of your story, a soft echo of a love that never really left.

We will all live long enough to bury someone we love. I just didn’t think my chapter would start this soon, written in ink that hasn’t even dried yet.

A thousand condolences. A thousand tears. It all still feels blurry.

I have never hated the past tense (was) in my life the way I hate it now.

“You look so much like her.” “Don’t cry.” “Be strong.”

I hear these words, and my cold heart fails, again and again. The tears keep coming, no matter how many times I tell them to stop.

I get to dream big because you gave me a reason to. You gave my dreams wings. Sometimes I wonder if you already saw the life I almost had without that one decision

We had plans. I don’t know why I’m even saying that, as if it changes anything. Life can be petty like that sometimes. It hands you wings and then, without warning, takes away the sky.

I used to think grief was something you got through. Now I know better. It's something you live inside of, gently, the way you live inside a room that used to hold someone. I don't have a neat way to end this. There isn't one. You were supposed to see all of it: the wings, the plans. Instead, I'm here, writing you into past tense, hating every word of it. The hurt stays, so do you.

She showed up in her favourite dress, the one she wore when she still believed in magic. Her eyes sparkled with dreams that hadn’t yet been bruised by reality. I watched her sip her juice like it was the most luxurious thing in the world, and for a moment, I envied her.

Her curiosity had never faded. I sighed, the questions came, just as I knew they would, and I realised I couldn’t hold back now.

She asked me if we ever became all the things she imagined. I smiled, not wanting to disappoint her. “We’re getting there,” I said. She nodded, trusting me the way only a child could.

I wanted to tell her that some dreams would change, some would break, and some would bloom in ways she never expected. I wanted to warn her about the heartbreaks, the nights she’d question everything, and the times she’d feel like giving up. But I didn't; I hesitated for a bit.

Instead, we shared little jokes, laughing until our eyes glistened with tears. But she knew me too well; she knew that my laughter was a veil and that I was slipping away from the answers she sought.

She paused, frowning playfully, resting her chin in her hands. "So… we don’t write anymore?"

I chuckled. "Of course we do. Maybe not in the way you thought, but we never stopped."

She grinned, remembering the short novel "We gave Obiezu to read in Primary 5. Remember how proud we were?"

I laughed. "Yes, and how nervous we were that she wouldn’t like it."

She nodded, satisfied, then leaned back. "And the friends? Did we ever find the kind we dreamed of?"

I smiled, thinking of them. "We did. We found people who feel like home. The kind who show up, who stay, who make life lighter. We built something real with them."

She beamed at that, but I could tell she wasn’t done. "And the law dreams?"

"We skipped that part. More like… we settled for something else."

Her expression shifted, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face. "But we made a pact," she reminded me. "To never settle." I sighed. "I guess I broke it. But you know what? We may not have followed that exact dream, but we’re still dreaming. We still want more, still reaching for more."

She tilted her head, considering my words. Then, she smiled; a soft, knowing smile. "Then maybe you didn’t really break it. Maybe the dream just changed."

I blinked, taking in her words. She was right, in the way she always was.

We sat there for a moment, just smiling at each other. And then, as if it was the simplest thing in the world, she said, "As long as we’re still dreaming, we’re okay."

Before she left, she squeezed my hand. “I hope you still dance when no one’s watching,” she said.

You didn’t just see the cracks; you held them, fingers soft, voice steady, filling the silence I thought would swallow me whole.

You didn’t ask me to be whole. Didn’t flinch when my fears spilled out, sharp and messy.

You just stayed, loving the hell out of me when I couldn’t even love the whisper of myself.

Somehow, you made the weight of my world lighter, and taught me that broken doesn’t mean beyond repair. That love isn’t just grand gestures or perfect moments, it’s the quiet, relentless presence of someone who refuses to let go. You stayed and somehow, against all odds, I learned to stay too.

You found me in the quiet chaos of my own making, a heart worn thin from battles nobody saw.

You loved me with a stubborn grace, never asking for more than what I could give, yet giving me everything I never knew I needed.

I still don’t know how you do it, loving the hell out of me when I’ve spent so long believing I wasn’t enough.

Your love didn’t ask for explanations or apologies. It just existed, a steady, unyielding love like a lighthouse for a heart lost at sea.

You didn’t save me, you taught me to save myself, to see the beauty in the cracks.

Now, when the weight returns, as it sometimes does, I remember your voice, your unshakable faith in me. And I stand, breathing deeply, knowing I am loved beyond the breaking.

Now we stood here, time slipping through our fingers, twenty-eight years of stories neither of us knew until our worlds collided.

You spoke of dreams once chased and lost, of nights when silence was our loudest companion. And I listened, heart open, recognizing the echoes of my unspoken fears.

The clock ticked, but we never listened, you were the calm to my chaos, the voice that made the noise disappear. I remember the way you held my dreams as if they were yours too.

To twenty-eight and beyond, to the kind of love that feels like home, even when we're still figuring out the map.

We didn’t need promises or plans; we had the here and now, and that was enough.

But time, relentless and unforgiving, reminded us that even the strongest tides retreat.

We stood still while the world moved on, hearts full yet breaking.

So here we are, twenty-eight memories later, wiser and if I had to choose again, I’d choose us, every time, even knowing how it ends.

Because love isn’t perfect. It’s human, all messy, raw, and real. Sincerely, I wouldn’t trade a single moment of it for anything else.

Twenty-eight memories, each one proof that love stayed, a love that held me together but the real question is… what happens now