The first time I laid eyes on him, I knew I’d be in trouble. He was the kind of guy that didn’t have to sweat or try hard to attract attention. The moment he stepped into the room, fireworks exploded in different direction. And all it took was one glance at his thin, red lips for my knees to wobble and make my stomach churn.
There was something in him that screamed disaster. Pretty much everyone knew that being romantically involved with him was like diving fearlessly from top of a building, with no guarantee if he’d catch you when you hit the ground. But I took that as a challenge. I considered him as a case I was determined to win.
Along the way, I realized it wasn’t just the pride of getting him be part of my life. It was more with trying to make him love me. Because if a guy like him could show interest in me, it clearly meant that I was special. That I wasn’t just the person he walked passed through the hallway. Not the one he only knew by name.
Getting him to spend alone time with me meant something beautiful was waiting for us down the road. Something life-changing was about to happen in my world.
In short period of time, I was already head over heels for him. It was odd how easy it was to be lost in him. How his tattooed arms could make me forget where I was each time they snaked across my skin. How his strong chest felt like the safest place on earth. How his green eyes could ask me do things I wouldn’t forgive myself for.
It didn’t take me years to fully know him from inside out. After couple of months, he took complete ownership of me and was convinced he could do whatever he wanted. I was not allowed to say no to him. I was not supposed to talk to any other guys. And whenever he was drunk, I should be there beside him, babysitting him, soothing him, making sure he was damn happy.
I gave him all of my heart, and sold him my entire soul, until I had no love left for myself. Because I thought he deserved them. But I guess I played fire with the wrong guy. And maybe it was way worse than burning in hell.
Loving him was like asking for a car accident. As soon as I lost control and swiveled around the road, it was too late to take everything back. And the only thing that I could do was scream and hope that when everything’s over, I could come out whole.
But of course I didn’t come out in one piece. I came out stumbling on the road with shards on my face, cuts and bruises all over my body. I was broken beyond repair. He destroyed me in unforgivable ways. And in the end, what I got were scars to remind me of everything that I did wrong in the name of love.
I guess part of the risk of dedicating yourself to a guy is the possibility of being hurt. You think that when you gently place your heart on his palm, he’ll do everything to take care of it. But when he doesn’t, you feel betrayed. It’s a punch in the gut. And you wish you trusted your instinct more.
If only I could go back in time, I would have put more spaces between me and him. I would have given myself just one more minute, one more moment to think about letting him enter my life. But as it turns out, it’s a little too late to cry over spilled milk. And maybe the best thing that I can do for now is to rebuild the love that I lost for myself. Because that’s one thing nobody can take away from me.
It’s time to clean up the mess that he shoved in my reputation. The scars he left me may be permanent but I know that they don’t have the power to define me. One of these days, I’ll be able to forgive myself for falling into a dangerous love, for giving the wrong guy my innocence.
And maybe by forgiving him too, I’ll be able to fully heal. And pretend that this nightmare never happened in the first place.