Sparkles

I looked up from the jar of peanut butter I was taking spoonfuls from, sitting with my legs dangling off the marble counter next to the sink.

"I hope this weekend is sparkly."

I passed my friend the peanut butter, and she nodded, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island opposite me.

"I want sparkles too."

This was my sophomore year when the emergence of the term "sparkles" became regularly referred to among my friends and me. It became an all-purpose noun, originating from my Spotify playlist named "Sparkly Songs," used to define the feeling of butterflies in your stomach and anything that makes your heart skip a beat. More often than not, it was used to metonymize the infamously ultimate teen desire of romance in all of its forms.

I had not anticipated the shortage of sparkles that I would feel throughout high school.

For some time now, I have observed the experiences of my closest friends with sparkles in all of their archetypes and tropes. I have seen my peers naturally drift in and out of relationships, whether they be rudimentary commitments or wholehearted dedications. It never seems to work out as often for me. Corresponding to my middle school experience of being the last friend to receive her first kiss, I feel myself waiting for my turn at a mere connection that might transcend the absence of romance in my life. The fish seem much scarcer than people claim. The more time that passes, however, the more I fear it may not be the fish in the sea that are the problem, but me.

It is ironic how when we feel loneliness, we feel as though we are the only person who feels that way—a consequence of our habit of thinking egocentrically, as if we are the center of the universe.

It is not that I am particularly interested in our generation's semi-affiliations through social media or stringless immersions into lust, nor have I ever really desired a true relationship. In fact, I happen to be a big proponent of the single life, promoting all of its blessings to my friends whenever they periodically enter into it. The discomfort of the lack of a "love life" comes with the questioning of your worth and desirability to other people, as you label prom dress shopping pointless without a date. The peacefulness becomes vacancy when Taylor Swift songs feel irrelevant to you, and you find yourself lingering at a coffee shop a little longer just to see if maybe your prospective sparkle candidate is there and might sweep you off your feet at that moment.

I realize that even if you are not a hopeless romantic in any way, these looming feelings are not unfamiliar. After all, I can confidently conclude, despite my small amount of years here, that human connection is what drives this world, giving people the strongest sense of purpose.

I do realize now, however, that sparkles exist in so much more than a romantic partner—and recently, I keep finding them tucked into aspects of my life I once overlooked. And I hope that you, whether you have a romantic partner or not, find them too.

I hope you find sparkles seeping out of your car radio when your favorite song plays. I hope you find them strung between the laughter of your best friends and the spontaneity of an unplanned night. I hope they reside in the pages of your favorite books or line the room of your favorite class. I hope they paint the sky when the sun is setting, and sprinkle it with stars when it sets. I hope they wait for you in your morning cup of coffee. I hope they fill your heart when you take risks. I hope they bounce off of angel numbers and 11:11 wishes. I hope they trickle off of you when you embrace the people you love or tell them that you are thinking of them.

Sparkles are everything, not just a single human you can attach to. Love is all around, waiting to be seized. After all, what is for you will not pass you, and in the meantime, there are places to explore, sunsets to catch, champagne to toast, books to get lost in, songs to belt, and friends and family to love unconditionally.

Sparkliest regards, El.