is it better to love and lost than never to have loved at all - By Rachael Chong

Written By: Rachael Chong

Category: Poetry (free verse)

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In a profound exploration of love and its inevitable intertwining with loss, Rachael Chong presents her evocative poem, "is it better to love and lost than never to have loved at all," within the Poetry category of the esteemed Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar. This reflective piece invites readers to contemplate the bittersweet nature of loving fiercely despite the potential for heartache, and challenges us to reconsider the value of love in our lives.

About the Work

Chong's poem delves into the emotional landscape of love, capturing the fleeting beauty and the lingering sorrow that follows. With vivid imagery and heartfelt introspection, she questions whether the joy of love outweighs the inevitable grief of loss. The work resonates with a universal truth, suggesting that even painful memories are a testament to lives that were truly lived and loved.

is it better to love and lost than never to have loved at all

Original Submission by Rachael Chong

is it better to love and lost than never to have loved at all?

Is it better to love and lost than never to have loved at all? After all, the saying has always been ‘to live is to love’, right? But why is love never just love? As beautiful as it is or can be, is it really worth the aftertaste?

‘To live is to love’. Is that supposed to just be a quote in a children’s book? Because why is it that the older I get I start to see love as a ticking time bomb? Perhaps that is the cruelest thing about love. It never tells you when the clock starts ticking.

You meet someone—or perhaps something—and for a while, everything feels almost embarrassingly beautiful. Without noticing, you begin to make room for them in places you once kept empty. You collect little things: a laugh, a familiar sound, photographs, the warmth of a presence.

Love doesn't come with a preview. No seven-day free trial, no terms and conditions, no indication of the cost or how long the membership will last. Yet somehow, we all still subscribe. Over and over again. We press “join” without knowing what comes next, trusting that whatever it is will be worth it.

Until it isn't.

I have seen enough endings to know that love does not always leave quietly. Sometimes it leaves gradually. Sometimes suddenly. Sometimes, there is no proper ending at all—just an empty space where something used to be.

What are we left with then?

Memories that refuse to fade. Places that feel different. Songs that suddenly have entirely different meanings. And the strange ache of knowing that there was once a version of your life where something you loved so much belonged in it.

So perhaps never loving is easier. And safer.

Perhaps it would be better to walk through life with an untouched heart than to spend years learning how to piece the pieces back together.

People say that the memories are worth it. That having loved is a privilege, even when love leaves.

‘To live is to love’, right?

But I sometimes wonder if we only say that because it is easier than admitting the truth: that there are some things we would give anything to have never known we could lose.

Because once you have loved, you can never return to who you were before it.

You cannot unsee a familiar look. You cannot unhear the sound of a particular laugh. You cannot erase the little routines that once made ordinary days feel complete.

Even when time moves forward, some part of you remains standing in that old moment, waiting for something that you already know is not coming back.

And that is the part no one warns you about.

Love doesn't only leave you with memories. It leaves you with comparisons.

Every quiet room reminds you of the noise that used to fill it. Every empty space seems a little larger because you know exactly what once occupied it.

The world continues as though nothing has happened.

Perhaps never loving is not a life without joy.

Perhaps it is a life without this particular kind of grief.

A life where you never have to discover how heavy an empty space can become. Where a favourite song remains just a song. Where an ordinary corner of a room remains ordinary. Where you can pass through a place without remembering who—or what—used to be beside you.

There is something almost cruel about giving your heart a home, only to one day have to live in the house after everyone has left.

So, is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

Perhaps we say yes because love is beautiful. Because we want to believe that the warmth was worth the cold that followed. Because saying otherwise would mean admitting that some of the things we cherished were also the things that taught us how to grieve.

Isn't it a little silly to keep willingly letting yourself get hurt?

How many times are we supposed to open the door knowing there is a chance we will one day have to close it alone? How many times should we hand something the power to matter to us, knowing that it may eventually become something we have to mourn?

If I had never loved, I would have nothing to lose.

And perhaps that, in itself, is a kind of peace.

Taking everything into account, without doubt, I am a firm believer that it is better to never have loved at all.

It sounds convincing, doesn't it?

After everything I’ve said, how could it not?

It is safe. It is logical. It is painless.

But I cannot tell that lie and call it peace.

I had it backwards.

Perhaps it isn't simply that to live is to love.

Perhaps, to love is to live.

To love is to live.

Because what is living if not allowing yourself to care deeply enough for something that its presence can change you?

What is living if not opening yourself to joy, knowing that sorrow may eventually find its way in too?

Maybe the ticking clock was never meant to frighten us into walking away. Maybe it was meant to remind us that we are here, that this moment is happening, that something matters enough to make us feel it.

And perhaps that is why love has no preview. We are not meant to know how long we get. We are simply meant to be here for it.

If you knew something beautiful would end, would you refuse to experience it at all?

If you knew the photograph would one day make you ache, would you rather never have taken it?

If you knew the room would one day be empty, would you have left it untouched?

If the answer is yes, then I understand.

I really do.

There is something tempting about never loving. No ticking clock. No unexpected charges. No membership to cancel. No empty space waiting for you at the end of it all.

But what kind of life would that be?

A safe one, perhaps.

A painless one, probably.

But would it be a full one?

Because love does not only give us something to lose. It gives us something to live for while we still have it.

It gives an ordinary morning a reason to be remembered. It turns a familiar face, a wagging tail, a favourite song, a photograph, a place, into something more than what it was before.

It makes us notice. It makes us care. It makes us stay a little longer.

And perhaps that is what I would say to someone who has stopped seeing the point of any of it: You do not have to know how the story ends for the story to matter to you.

We know that the sun will set every evening, but we do not call the day pointless because it ended.

All flowers bloom knowing they will wilt, yet we still call them beautiful. We still admire them.

A song does not become meaningless because the final note eventually arrives.

And love is no different.

Perhaps we have mistaken permanence for purpose. We think something must last forever to have been worth having. But some of the most precious things in life were never promised to us forever. They were only promised to us for a moment—and perhaps a moment was enough to change everything.

The ticking clock does not make the time worthless.

It makes every second precious.

And maybe love's lack of a preview is not a flaw either.

Maybe if we knew exactly how much it would cost, exactly when it would end, exactly how much it would hurt, we would never have the courage to press ‘join.’

You would never get the chance to experience something beautiful and special to you.

Perhaps ignorance is part of the gift.

We enter without guarantees. We give pieces of ourselves without knowing whether they will be returned intact.

And yes, the endings come, but before it does, we get to live inside it.

We get the laughter. We get the photographs. We get the familiar sounds. We get the ridiculous little routines that mean nothing to anyone else but somehow mean everything to us. We get to think, I am so glad I got to know this.

And when it is gone, perhaps we should not ask why we were silly enough to love it.

Perhaps we should ask ourselves how lucky we were that it ever existed in our lives at all.

Perhaps, when everything else feels meaningless, having loved—and having something worth grieving—is proof that life was never empty to begin with.

Because grief is not proof that love failed.

Grief is what happens when love has nowhere left to go.

The empty room hurts because once, it was full.

The song hurts because once, it made you happy.

The photograph hurts because once, you were there.

And maybe that is not something to run from.

Maybe those things are not scars left behind by a life that was wasted. Maybe they are fingerprints left behind by a life that was actually lived.

So, if you are standing at the edge of love, terrified of what might happen when it ends, I cannot promise you that it will not hurt.

I cannot promise you that the timer will not reach zero.

I cannot promise that you will never sit in an empty room and wish, desperately, for one safer, more ordinary day.

But I can promise you this:

There is a particular kind of sadness in losing something you loved, and there is another kind of sadness in never having had anything to lose at all.

One leaves you grieving what once filled your heart. The other leaves you wondering what could have been.

And if I must choose between the two, I think I would rather carry the weight of memories than the weight of never making them.

I would rather have the photograph.

I would rather know the laughter.

I would rather have loved something enough for its absence to hurt.

Because perhaps the purpose was never to keep everything we love forever.

Perhaps the purpose was to love it while we could.

To be present while it was here.

To let ourselves be changed.

And when the final note comes, when the flowers wilt, when the clock finally stops ticking, perhaps we are not left with nothing.

Perhaps we are left with proof.

Proof that, for a little while, something mattered.

Proof that, for a little while, we mattered enough to love and be loved.

And perhaps that is the greatest gift love can leave behind: the knowledge that, for at least a little while, our hearts were full.

So, over and over again, and in every lifetime, I will choose to love.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating exceptional literary talent from around the world. Participants engage in a rich exchange of ideas, showcasing their creativity in various forms of poetry and prose. This competition fosters a global appreciation for the written word, offering writers an opportunity to share their unique voices and stories.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Rachael Chong for her poignant contribution, "is it better to love and lost than never to have loved at all," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her exploration of love's complexities offers a profound perspective on the human experience, enriching our understanding of the delicate balance between joy and sorrow.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.