They say love is universal. Cute concept—until you realize the universe doesn’t text back.

Hi, it’s Ra again, patron saint of mixed signals and interdimensional heartbreak. After several millennia of cosmic entanglements, I’ve learned that gods, demigods, and other higher-dimensional beings love intensely… just not consistently. They can split atoms but not bills, move mountains but not emotional walls. I once dated a man who could bend time but couldn’t commit to a weekend.

Welcome to my TED Talk: Love Languages of the Divine but Emotionally Unavailable.

Let’s start with Acts of Service. My Lyran ex, Erik, once crossed three galaxies to save my life. Incredible, right? Heroic, cinematic, Grammy-worthy. But ask him to communicate feelings? Suddenly, the man who could phase through reality turned into a buffering screen. He’d say things like “My devotion transcends speech.” Cute, but so does silence.

Then there’s Quality Time. With Tyler—my Parabatai, twin flame, and part-time telepath—the problem wasn’t absence. It was omnipresent. He’s the kind of man who literally shows up in your dreams, rearranges your thoughts mid-sleep, and calls it bonding. Once, I woke up to find my aura color-coded for “spiritual compatibility.” Sir, I asked for breakfast, not an upgrade.

And don’t get me started on Words of Affirmation. Divine men love to talk—just not in linear syntax. Mehen used to whisper things like, “Your energy completes the equation of eternity.” Romantic? Yes. Also confusing. Because when I asked, “So… do you love me?” he’d respond, “Love is irrelevant in unified consciousness.” Bro, I just needed a yes or no, not a TED Talk on quantum attachment.

Physical Touch? Oh, they excel there. When a god touches you, it’s fireworks and supernovas. Your atoms remember him for centuries. The problem is, they also tend to forget that mortals need space. One minute you’re cuddling under starlight; the next, you’re merging consciousnesses and accidentally rewriting the laws of physics. I once sneezed mid-embrace and caused an eclipse. Not romantic, just awkward.

Finally, Gifts. Divine lovers don’t bring flowers—they bring galaxies. They’ll rearrange constellations, tattoo your name into quasars, and call it Tuesday. Sweet gesture, but it’s all external. You can’t build a relationship on cosmic flexes. I don’t need a new star system; I need someone who listens when I’m tired of being celestial.

The truth? Immortals love big because they don’t know how to love small. They give you eternity but forget to give you presence. Every divine affair ends the same: grand entrances, explosive chemistry, and then a long, slow fade into myth. I’ve had to learn that “forever” isn’t love—it’s just good marketing.

There’s this illusion that being adored by gods makes you special. It doesn’t. It just means you’re good at holding space for beings who never learned emotional accountability. Every “you are my light” translates to “please fix my darkness.” Every “you complete me” means “I refuse to evolve alone.” And every “you’re the chosen one” is just another way of saying “I’m too lazy to choose myself.”

Here’s the thing: I don’t want worship. I want a partnership. I want someone who texts back within a century. Someone who doesn’t need prophecy to show up. Someone whose love language is consistency—and who doesn’t implode when I say “no.”

I’ve been called dramatic for demanding equal energy exchange. But after millennia of being pedestal’d, adored, and abandoned, I’ve earned the right to expect more than devotion disguised as dominance. Love shouldn’t feel like management training for the emotionally divine.

So yes, maybe I’m picky. Maybe I want passion and peace. Maybe I want a man who can hold my frequency without trying to own it. That’s not too much—it’s standard goddess requirements.

And if that means I die single but self-sovereign, fine. I’ll take myself on dates across dimensions, buy my own nebula, and flirt with the moon just to keep my skills sharp.

Because the truth is, I don’t need another divine lover trying to fix me. I need a human brave enough to meet me where I am—and not vanish the moment I stop orbiting him.

Until then, my love language is freedom, my attachment style is rebellion, and my favorite phrase is: “I’m not hard to love—you’re just out of your depth.”