I was in love with a writer once.
Sweet words flowed from his mouth like a buttery fountain, smooth and passionate, coating everything they touched. His eyes held a kindness so profound that when I looked into them, I could see how truly nothing else mattered to him, except me.
In just a few days, he offered me love in ways I had never imagined. Love on a plate, in a cup, on the field, in the spaces between our hands, in his smile, and oh, God, in his eyes. His eyes, where I often found myself lost. On his lap, where I rested my head, I had one of the most peaceful sleep of my life.
He never wanted me out of his sight. His legs always found their way to mine, and together, we fit, like we were made to be.
And in those same few days, I heard those three sacred words: I. love. you. And when he said them to me, I searched his eyes. The same eyes I had memorized, and I saw the truth there. He wasn’t lying.
He was the most intense love I had ever known. The chemistry we shared was electric, undeniable. I wanted it to be him… the man who had learned to hold my heart so delicately, as though it was the most fragile thing in the world.
Loving him felt ethereal. It felt like the fishes in the ocean, the clouds in the sky, the wetness of the rain, the moon among the stars. It felt right. It felt perfect.
And when he wrote about me, I saw myself through the lens of a man who adored me completely. His words painted me as flawless, as his perfect counterpart. His writing was as kind as his eyes, as delicate as his hands, as fragile as his heart.
I’d heard stories of love that comes once in a lifetime, and I thought it was him. I wanted it to be him. We shared something so deep, so intense, I can barely capture it in words. He was my world, as I was his.
But it didn’t take long for those worlds to come crumbling down.
“There’s someone in the picture,” he said one night… two nights before he told me he loved me.
“I have a girlfriend,” he added, the words carefully placed, as though he didn’t know if I could carry them. For the first time, he was the one searching my eyes. And I’m sure he saw it all: disbelief, confusion, hurt, betrayal.
“What do you want from me, then?” I asked.
“I… I really like you. And what we have going on.” He shrugged. “You’re perfect for me.”
He managed to bandage the wound, to soothe the sting, and I let myself forget. I carried on, because he was too good to let go. I liked how he made me feel too much to walk away.
But soon, the fragile world we built crumbled for a second time.
Oh, the ache that followed. The yearning. The selfishness.
Days turned into months. Months into years. Slowly, I started to forget what it was like to love him. We didn’t belong to each other.
And maybe we never will.
