I started romanticizing my life during one of those long afternoons in sophomore year, the kind that blurs into itself. I played soft music while studying, brought flowers to my desk, and told myself I was the main character in a coming-of-age film no one was watching. It gave my days some shape. And in the middle of all the tests, group work, and quiet pressure, it helped.

It was a coping mechanism, though I didn’t call it that back then. If I could make moments feel special, even small ones, like sipping iced coffee while highlighting notes, I could trick myself into feeling okay.

Eventually, it went further. I’d replay interactions in my head like scenes. I’d curate my outfits, my pens, my playlists, just to stay in the illusion that everything meant something. On the surface, I looked like I had it together. Inside, I wasn’t always sure what was real and what was just a story I told myself to stay afloat.

Romanticizing helped me survive. It made hard days a little softer. But it also made it harder to sit with boredom or disappointment when life didn’t match the version in my head.

I still do it sometimes. But now, I try to let the moment be ordinary, without needing it to be cinematic. Some days just exist. And that’s enough.