Am I Single or Just Selectively Unavailable?

I couldn’t help but wonder…
Was I single… or just profoundly uninterested in entertaining anything less than butterflies and bare-minimum decency?

There’s a strange pressure in your twenties to be in love — or at least in something. A situationship, a flirtationship, a “we’re talking but not really” limbo that has all the emotional depth of a three-day texting streak and a few Instagram likes.

But lately, I’ve started asking myself: is it really that I’m single… or am I just selectively unavailable?

Because the truth is — I’m not waiting for someone to complete me. I’m building a life so whole, so deliciously full, that it would take someone really extraordinary to even catch my attention. Someone who adds peace, not pressure. Who texts back, respects boundaries, and doesn’t make me decode emojis like it’s the LSAT.

And no — I’m not "too picky." I’m just finally refusing to romanticise crumbs.

I used to think love had to be all-consuming. The kind that steals your sleep, your focus, your identity. Now I realise the love I want feels like soft jazz in the background — not noise, but warmth. Not chaos, but calm.

So yes, I’m single. But not lonely.
I’m busy loving my life, my people, my peace. I’m curating my own joy — in bookstores, in bubble baths, in becoming the kind of woman who doesn’t chase, but attracts.

Selective unavailability isn’t a defense mechanism. It’s a love language.
It’s saying: I know what I bring to the table, and I refuse to shrink just to fit someone else’s appetite.

So to anyone asking if I’m single — the answer is yes.
Single, happy, and highly uninterested in convincing someone to choose me.

I’ll choose myself, every time.