It’ll happen when you least expect it, they say. It’ll happen when you’re watering plants in the front yard and he happens to pass by, all crows feet and laugh lines, and you’ll fall in love, just like that, as the smell of fertilizer seeps into your nostrils and the watering can becomes the outlet for your nervous fingers to pore over as you have your first conversation.

It’ll happen in the summer, when you’re sitting in your favourite coffee shop (isn’t it always a coffee shop?) and you’ll be approached by the somber barista. You try to put a smile on her face and she laughs and you can’t stop looking at each other for the duration of your visit. The duration of which has been extended an extra half-hour even though you have that important meeting to get to just so you don’t have to avoid breaking eye contact.

It’ll happen when you’re walking to class at university, bag slung precariously over your arm. You think you’re going to drop it but instead your glove falls as you try to pry it out of your phone/I.D/headphone stuffed pockets. Your reaching hand collides with those of the stranger also reaching down to retrieve it and you both smile and you laugh and bim-bam-boom, you’re married.

Regardless of how it happens, you can’t look for it. You can’t search out love. It needs to happen naturally, or else it’s doomed to fail. Which is essentially ridiculous, because for many of us, love is what we aspire to have in our lives with some form of significant other. It needs to fall into your lap like a wind that takes off your favourite hat on a supposedly calm autumn day. It’s like the universe or God or whatever you believe in can sniff out your desire like a bloodhound, ears to the ground, waiting for someone to say, “Man, I wish I could have a boyfriend” as they look at another canoodling couple three tables over at some casual restaurant.

Somehow, we can’t get what we want. Just like the wailing child that cries with every ounce of its forty-pound frame to deaf-eared parents as they drive past the restaurant, oh, do they want it. They want it. Magical, isn’t it? Your pleas of wanting love sound like the screams of a young kid to your childless friends. They don’t worry about it.

Even if you don’t verbalize it, instead keeping your emotions bottled up as you’re left staring at the cute guy walking by, the universe knows. You don’t know how, but it just does. And there’s nothing you can do about it. The universe picks up on your thought waves, the aura you give off, the smell of desire clinging to the ends of your hairs, the bottoms of your shoes. You’re leaving footprints of longing everywhere you go and you don’t even know it. And it isn’t fair. You’re being patient. You’re not seeking anyone out. You’re not forcing it. Because that’s exactly what everyone tells you to do after you’re stuck being single for too long: it needs to happen naturally. When you least expect it. You have to be okay with being single and suddenly the magic will happen.

My friend kissed me on the cheek unexpectedly as I crossed paths with her while walking up the stairs. It caught me off-guard, both of us having rarely hugged before today. It was fleeting: I smiled at her, she reached in for a hug, and as I mimicked her outstretched arms, the tips of her lips snagged the skin of my cheek.

“See you later!” she called, and proceeded to prance away. It wasn’t grounded in anything sexual, at least not for me. Regardless, I couldn’t help but turn the event over and over in my mind, remembering the ghost of the kiss long after it happened.

My mom would ask me if I’m okay with being single. This came most often after my first big breakup. After I was done crying for months on end and I would start to talk about the cute boys I would notice in college, she would ask me this and I would look over at her, across the center console of her car, and say yes, hoping that the sounds of the road would drown out my reply. I’m okay with being single. I’ve been single before. I’ve been through breakups and crushes and dealt with the unbearable need of wanting someone else to sleep next to at night. The bed’s colder when you’re alone. Duh, there isn’t excess body heat sweating on my 1,200 thread count sheets. I know it’s supposed to be a metaphor for your heart or some dumb crap like that, but on a purely physical level, it’s obviously going to be warmer with another body stealing the covers.

But I know that I like to be cozy. Along with a lot of the human population, I like the comfort of another person sleeping next to me. If I like them enough, I might even enjoy the sound of their light snoring or the pressure of their leg trying to push me out of bed. It’s nice, you know? Who wouldn’t want to spend time with someone that cares about you and wants to see you naked?

I know this is riddled with sarcasm, but it’s true. If everyone wants it, why do we have to pretend like we don’t?

I don’t know why the universe likes to keep things from us, but I believe that it’s entirely unfair. Especially after all the misses I’ve had to deal with.

I recognize that my life isn’t much harder than the average bear’s in regard to relationship issues. Middle school crushes, weird flirtationships, awkward declinations of the proposed date a couple times. The first boyfriend was a dud, the second was THE LOVE OF MY LIFE that then proceeded to cheat on me, while the last one was a complete mismatch regardless of what my heart tries to tell me otherwise. After dealing with so many Mr. Not-Rights, you’d think I’d deserve a guy that treats me well. Or at least one that wants to take me to dinner every once in awhile.

But no. Because the universe knows. It knows that I’m eyeing the cute boy in the coffee line. It knows that I spend too much time in the morning on my makeup, hoping to impress so-and-so with dashing eyeliner that he probably won’t even notice.

As a heterosexual, cis-gendered female, I know people have it so much worse in the dating game. My lesbian friends run out of Tinder matches far more quickly than I do. My bi friends are ridiculed for being single while having both genders at their fingertips (which is ridiculous on so many levels). But this isn’t a story about the struggles of heteronormativity. This is a tale of anger at the universe, which I’m sure everyone can relate to.

Because what the hell. I mean, what the hell. After trying so hard and trying to be the best person I could possibly be, it didn’t work out with the relationships that have come my way. Everyone has had to deal with heartbreak at one point or another. And I blame the universe.

I don’t know if yelling at my most recent ex will make the pain of the breakup better. I doubt that pointing out the flaws of my small number of exes will make me realize that I can do better. I don’t know if having a new significant other in my life will make me feel better. But I hate that it’s up to the universe to decide.

If I take the plunge and ask someone out, it’ll be doomed to fail. If I download one of the million dating apps out there, it’ll assuredly go wrong (serial killers and all). Waiting for the cute guy across the street to make eye contact will lead to nothing. What are we to do when the universe has all the trump cards and can also see through my cards and also has laser vision?

There’s a guy across the cafeteria that looks like my ex. His hair is longer and he doesn’t have glasses, but he reminds me of the one that cheated on me. He’s wearing red, my ex’s favourite colour on me, and his hair is the same shade of dusty blonde that I loved. There’s something in his appearance that repulses me. But it makes me miss the days we stared lovingly across the table at each other over dinner. He’s with a girl, but I don’t know who she is.

I was able to get over him after a year and some change. I was a blubbering mess for months but I know I came out stronger. The next relationship I entered was worse but I was infatuated with the guy. And then he proceeded to break my heart too.

I don’t know what will make it better.

I can’t search out love, that’s up to the universe. I slowly realized that I can search out my own personal happiness though. It’s one of those things that comes with the barrier of time and once the universe is done ravaging you for a minute, you’re golden. You finally realize that you’re okay. That you’re strong. And that your future is in your hands.

But on that day in the cafeteria, the only thing in my hands was a bitter cup of coffee. There weren’t any cute guys in line to gaze at from afar. I went to take a sip and noticed that even the steam filing from the top of my 12 oz cup blew in the dusty blonde’s direction.