For as long as I can remember, it’s been of a most popular opinion that something about me is, quite simply, a bit off. Some think it’s the crystals and half-conscious ghost talk. Some think it’s the glazed, intangible look in my eye at various points in the day. But many would agree the most astounding strangeness, is my inability to understand the maddening importance of romantic relationships.

The population, on the whole, has a tendency to take this one form of love and put it up high on a nigh unreachable pedestal. It’s considered in many ways (especially to the young) to be a form of love comparable to the brilliance of the sun. A sun that, sometimes, burns out all other forms of love. The love between close friends. The love between siblings. The love for a parent and their child or a person and their pet. Even the love for your greatest enemy. (If you’re into that sort of thing.)

If I’m being entirely honest – and I try to make a habit of this – I have no idea if romance is true the way you can read about it in a book or see it happen in the movies, because

I’ve never seen another person and felt the world tip off its axis. That isn’t to say I don’t know love. I’ve been deeply and completely in love with every person I’ve invited into my life for however brief a time they were there. (Okay fine. Most people.) I’ve always believed love was not worth giving unless it could be given with your whole heart. No matter what form that love takes.

That’s why, despite my adoration for Disney fairytales growing up, I find myself where I am now at nearly thirty.

I am sick

To death

Of romance stories

It’s become a challenge for me to find a good fantasy book where the romance doesn’t saturate the plot. There’s always a man. There’s always a woman. And more pages seemed dedicated to whether or not they fall in love than to if they manage to overthrow the evil emperor or whatever kids get up to in fantasies these days.

There’s nothing wrong with a romance arc. Despite the strangeness I share with others on this planet, I understand it’s often an important part of people’s lives. (Though I suggest you look into cultural norms and start asking yourself why you think and feel this way. Who knows, you might be chasing after something that will never make you happy.) But it’s not the only part of our lives. It’s not the only relationship worth writing about. In my opinion, it’s not even the most beautiful form of love there is.

We’ve reached a time where it might be beneficial to start telling new stories and expanding on the entire experience of being human rather than rehashed pieces of it. That means enough with romanticizing abusive relationships in YA books. Stop teaching girls that they can change abusive dick bags. Stop teaching boys they have to be abusive dick bags. It also means teaching young adults to value more in their lives than whether or not they fall into this strange fairytale love we keep out of reach on that blasted pedestal.