(I've found something truly good) Love, in the way we casually speak of it every day, feels like something obvious: for someone to love you is for them to see “you” in you. But who is this “you,” really? If we don't know ourselves clearly if we keep failing ourselves with secret thoughts, shameful desires, and buried contradictions then is other people’s love truly a conscious, informed choice, or just a bet on an incomplete picture? The one who loves you cannot hear your inner monologue, doesn't know the worst things you have thought, and does not witness every moment of your cowardice or your small hypocrisies that you know too well. They're loving a version of you: your behaviour, your tone of voice and the fragments you have allowed to be seen From here a harsh question emerges: do you really have the right to be loved while you secretly believe you are far worse than others imagine? The point isn't to glorify self-hatred, but to expose the rift between the self you display to the world and the self you confront in private. You try to make yourself “bearable,” to polish and arrange yourself so you will not frighten others, yet this effort carries its own deceit: you're not so much healing yourself as you are hiding how dangerous you might be. Outwardly, you seem domesticated; inwardly, you know there is still something rotten unresolved. At this point an extreme moral logic starts to creep in: if you see yourself as full of inner betrayal, smothered selfishness, and murky intentions, is it really just to place that burden on the one who loves you? Is it fair to ask another person to endure your presence with all its invisible damage? From this angle, loneliness stops looking like a pure misfortune and begins to look like something possibly deserved: a silent sentence passed on a self that knows, deep down, that no one should be forced to carry it. The question 0f “Is love unethical?” here doesn't claim that love is pure evil; it touches a more unsettling nerve. When we forget that we are not innocent before ourselves, the fantasy that someone might love us without really knowing us begins to look like an injustice to them and to us alike. It is as if the text whispers: before you mourn being unloved, ask yourself with painful honesty are you truly willing to be seen as you are, and is it fair to demand that another person shoulder that sight?