Why Do Humans Fall in Love? A Deep Look Into Feelings, Psychology, and Real Life Love is one of the most powerful emotions humans experience, yet it is also one of the most confusing. People fall in love without planning it. Sometimes it happens slowly, sometimes suddenly, and sometimes when we least expect it. But why does this happen? Why do humans fall in love at all? The answer is not just one thing. Love is a mix of biology, emotions, experiences, loneliness, hope, and human connection. The Need to Feel Understood At the heart of love is a simple human need: to be understood. Every human carries thoughts they never say out loud, fears they hide, and dreams they are scared to share. When someone listens without judging, stays without leaving, and understands without explanation — the heart slowly opens. For example, think of a student who feels invisible at home and ignored at school. One day, someone notices them, asks how their day was, and actually listens. That small moment cre...
Some memories from school stay with us for no reason, and some stay because they change something inside us. I was in Class 7 when this small incident happened, and even today, when I think about it, I can still feel the same mix of excitement, embarrassment, and pride that I felt back then.
It started on a quiet winter afternoon. Our teacher walked into class with a big smile and said we were going to have a “waste-materials project competition.” At that age, even small announcements felt like festivals, so the whole class buzzed with energy.
Within minutes, everyone divided into groups. Students who came prepared opened their bags proudly — colourful papers, glue bottles, sparkles, cardboard sheets, markers. Their tables looked like mini art studios.
Our group… didn’t look like anything.
No materials.
No plan.
Just four confused kids.
I remember all of us exchanging awkward looks. None of us had told our parents about the activity, and honestly, none of us had the habit of carrying extra craft stuff to school.
“Bro, we are definitely losing today,” someone whispered, and we all silently agreed.
After school, instead of going home, we sat in the playground under the neem tree. The competition was the next day, and we had nothing. We didn't even have an idea.
While we were talking, Raju suddenly pointed at a pile of broken bricks lying near the boundary wall.
He said, “Why don’t we make something out of that?”
I still remember how we stared at him like he had lost his mind.
“A brick? Seriously?”
“People are making rockets and models… and we will take a brick?”
But Raju wasn’t joking.
“Sir only said use waste material. Brick is waste. Let’s try something.”
We didn’t have anything better in mind, so we chose the brick that looked the least damaged. It still had dust stuck in the corners and sharp edges. We took it to the playground and started cleaning it using our hands first, then rubbing it on the ground, then using a torn cloth.
It wasn’t easy. It scratched our fingers. Dust went into our nails. The brick felt heavy and rough. But somewhere in that moment, we forgot it was a competition. It felt like we were doing something together — something genuinely ours.
We used crushed chalk to add color.
We used a half-broken pencil to draw borders.
Someone found a small piece of charcoal near the wall, so we used that too.
Slowly, slowly, the old brick started looking like a handmade paperweight or nameplate.
It wasn’t beautiful.
But it was honest.
It had our fingerprints, our effort, and our friendship all over it.
The next day, when we placed it on the competition table, people laughed — loudly.
“Who brings a brick?”
“Is that your model?”
“You guys are finished.”
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We felt that sting inside, the kind that makes your chest heavy. But we pretended to be chill.
When the results were being announced in the evening, none of us stood near the stage. Why would we? We already knew the winner would be a group with glitter and charts and perfect handwriting.
Then something unexpected happened.
The teacher said,
“The special creativity prize goes to the team that used real waste and real imagination. They didn’t complain, they created.”
And she said our group name.
I swear, for two seconds, we didn’t move.
We thought maybe we misheard.
Then we looked at each other — our eyes lit up at the same time.
Walking to the stage felt like walking in a dream. People weren’t laughing anymore. Some were shocked, some were impressed, and some looked at us with new respect.
Our teacher held the brick gently, like it was something precious, and told the whole class:
“Creativity isn’t about having more. It’s about doing more with what you have.”
She tied a golden ribbon around it before giving it back to us. That small ribbon made that dusty brick feel like the most priceless trophy in the world.
We didn’t win first place, but that night we walked home feeling taller.
We didn’t have fancy materials, but we had courage.
We didn’t have colours, but we had ideas.
We didn’t have much, but we made something out of nothing.
And that small childhood moment taught me a lesson I never forgot:
*Life doesn’t wait for perfect conditions.
Start with what you have — and magic happens from there.*
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