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My name is Sarah Miller. I’m a 40-year-old woman—or rather, I was 40 when this story truly began—who spent most of her life chasing a version of love that always seemed just out of reach. Some men betrayed me, leaving scars that lingered long after they were gone, while others treated me as a brief stop, a passing acquaintance along the road to somewhere else. Every heartbreak added another layer of caution to my soul, and through it all, I watched my youth slip away in quiet, almost imperceptible increments. What remained were bruised hopes, quiet disappointments, and a growing question: was love truly meant for me, or had I simply been unlucky in its pursuit?
