I met you on Tinder. We both swiped right, you messaged me, and the rest was history. We went to bars, had coffee at the stroke of midnight, indulged in occasional fine dining, and you even took me out for ice cream once. We would talk about the current statuses of our family life, updates inside our social circles, and even a mention or two regarding our career and personal life decisions.
You were the one, I just knew it. How could I be wrong when every ounce of your presence gave me butterflies? We would’ve made a great couple. Same interests, same age, and same astrological sign; we were perfect.
Or so I thought.
As months passed, I remember feeling excited whenever I would see your car parked in front of my house, only to second guess my feelings for you by the end of the night. Where did I stand with you? How long could I continue this cycle of disrespect, not only toward my body but toward who I was?
I remember all the nights I’d spend with you. I fell for you the minute my personal life inserted itself into our relationship. I remember confessing every ounce of my feelings to you and how you told me how out of line I was. You said I couldn’t possibly be catching feelings for you because we were just “friends.” You took away my ability to validate how I felt and turned it into the blame-it-on-the-lady game.
You messed up my mind, my heart, and my reality. All the tables were turned. You made me believe how crude and unnecessary it was to be looking for a genuine relationship; I was slowly losing sight of my identity. You didn’t even love me and you weren’t interested in falling for me, so why was your presence and attention the only one I craved? How could I have thought so little of myself under such mediocre circumstances?
In the summer of 2017, I confessed the growth of my feelings towards you, and once again you refused. “We’re just friends, we’re only having fun. Chill — we’re not even in a relationship.” But friends don’t make out like that, friends don’t hold hands at the movies, and evidently, friends don’t consistently imply romantic interest in their actions and words, only to deny any trace of it the next day.
So I had it. I had enough of your need for control, your lies, deceit, and manipulation. I grew fed up with your refusals of me, your rejection of my love, and your ignorance of my presence in your life. So I left you.
I walked away from your hesitation, your indecisiveness, and your immaturity. I found myself not caring if I was going to be alone anymore, and for the first time, I didn’t mind the idea of it either. I’d rather be alone than spend another minute with you. I’d rather feel my own love than beg for yours. I’d rather do what I want when I want than letting you tell me what to do. You see, being with you longer than I planned to taught me to value myself first before I even dared to cherish anybody else. I realized that I was as important as the next person who’d come into my life.
I was ready to leave everything behind because I was ready for a fresh start — browsing for jobs out of the country, inquiring about living spaces in different cities, and finally at peace with the future of the love in my life.
And that was when I met someone very special. Someone who valued my opinion as much as what he thought of the situation, who invested an equal amount of effort towards each stage of our relationship, and who became my best friend, aware that the concept of romantic gestures could never sum up to the deed of always being there when needed the most.
Evidently, my love life had succumbed to an interesting array of emotions where I thought I was going to be alone for a while or that no one could ever learn to completely love me. It eventually led me down a path of seeking constant validation from men who only valued my presence through their physical pleasure. I never gave up hope, because even through the chaos, I knew I was bound to meet him one day.
Who knew that day was right around the corner.