To love someone is one thing.

To be loved by someone is something entirely different.

For most of my life, I had experienced the former in bits and pieces, but the latter—the feeling of truly being loved—always seemed distant, almost theoretical. It was something I had read about, heard about, but never felt closely enough to understand.

Now, as the real world slowly calls me back and a month of recovery comes to an end, I find myself wanting to write about that feeling.

A few weeks ago, I underwent brain surgery.

The decision wasn’t sudden. Doctors had warned me that delaying it further could eventually affect either my vision or my sinuses. In fact, during the last week of April, I had already experienced an episode of visual distortion. Whether it was related to blood pressure or something else, it was enough to remind me that time was not on my side.

Like most people facing uncertainty, I did what everyone does—I searched.

Google.

ChatGPT.

Medical articles.

Research papers.

Side effects.

Recovery stories.

The internet offered every possible scenario, from reassuring outcomes to frightening possibilities. I knew that anything could happen.

And somewhere in that uncertainty, I decided to start writing.

I wanted to write about my childhood memories, my experiences, and the stories that had quietly shaped my life. There was a simple thought behind it:

If there are stories worth telling, it is better to write them before you leave.

When I asked ChatGPT how to improve my writing, it suggested getting friends to review it.

The problem was simple.

I didn’t have such friends.

So I did something completely out of character.

I created a Threads account.

I introduced myself honestly—my age, my profession, my location, and my strange aspiration of connecting with writers, authors, and people who simply enjoyed words.

On May 2nd, after posting something rather silly as my first post, something unexpected happened.

My inbox exploded.

Connection requests.

Messages.

Comments.

Hundreds of them.

I had absolutely no idea how Threads worked.

At first, I barely responded. My intention wasn’t to collect followers or build an audience. I simply enjoyed posting random thoughts.

But what surprised me most wasn’t posting.

It was replying.

Conversations began.

Jokes were exchanged.

Comments turned into friendships.

And among those interactions, I found people remarkably similar to myself—equally absurd, equally funny, equally human.

Since they were strangers, it was strangely easy to be honest with them.

I told them about my upcoming brain surgery.

Then surgery day arrived.

And something beautiful happened.

Before surgery.

During recovery.

After surgery.

I never felt alone.

Every morning brought messages.

Good morning wishes.

Random texts.

Memes.

Instagram reels.

Terrible jokes.

Unexpected check-ins.

In the middle of pain, medications, uncertainty, and recovery, there wasn’t a single day when loneliness managed to find a place beside me.

None of these people were physically present.

None of them knew my social standing.

None of them cared about professional titles, achievements, or status.

No one was trying to gain anything.

No one was keeping score.

And most importantly, it never felt like sympathy.

It felt like care.

Pure and uncomplicated care.

Three weeks have passed since the surgery.

And they are still here.

Still sharing.

Still laughing.

Still texting.

Not out of obligation.

Not because they have to.

But because they genuinely want to.

There is a difference between people being kind to you and people caring about you.

You can feel it.

And somehow, through this strange digital world, a group of people I had never met gave me something I had never truly experienced before.

The feeling of being loved.

Not romantically.

Not dramatically.

Just human beings choosing, every day, to make another human being feel seen.

I may eventually leave many things behind.

Jobs.

Cities.

Possessions.

Achievements.

But I don’t think I will leave these people behind.

Somewhere along this journey, they became part of my story, and I became part of theirs.

A small piece of me belongs to them now.

And so, every beautiful morning and every quiet night before sleep, I get to experience something I once thought existed only in books.

The feeling of being loved.

And if life permits, I would like that feeling to stay.