I had thought for a long time that I was broken. That something inside of me wasn't wired right, and I didn't understand how I could fix it. There was no shortage of unions and alliances to try to correct it with, but the problem wasn't sexual. I had no problem enjoying sex, enjoying it honestly with any type of person, any gender and any disposition.
But I didn't feel anything more. No deeper spark, no butterflies in my stomach, no blush on my face. I looked at the way humans fell in love, how they put it in their movies and books, composed poems and songs about it, claimed it was what put the stars in the sky and the air in their lungs. But I never felt that. But I came to realize that I was not dysfunctional, it was just who I was.
Knowing I wasn't damaged was what made the Sun shine for me. Knowing I didn't have to try to make friendships or sex mean something romantic, knowing that not everyone was romantically attracted to people – I hadn't felt that at peace and happy in centuries. I could watch humans in love, watch romances bloom, and I could just admire the beauty of it without thinking I should have found a way to experience it too. My heart didn't have to ache because of the fact that it didn't ache by itself.
I wasn't broken, I was me. And I was content as being aro, content at last when I found my identity.