I have been holding onto this for a while. A long while.
Like fucking forever.
I didn’t know what was going to happen…except deep down, I kind of always knew how this story would end. It would end with him making the wrong choice, because he was the kinda guy who would make the wrong choice, and our thing, whatever you’d call our relationship over seven months…it was all about choices and deep down, I always thought he would probably make the wrong choice and walk away.
We were perfect together, if we added it all up on paper. Two people in similar positions, similar circumstances, our lives hurling at us all these things that just added up. On paper, we were perfect. We wanted the same things, we listened to the same things, we were eager to learn about the same things. We circled each other’s interests like buzzards zeroing on its kill carried over from past lives, echoed each other’s sentiment…
I thought from day one, this guy? He could be the one that made me rethink everything I knew about men. He was kind, he was sweet, he was my unicorn.
But he was newly single, hurt and needy, naive in a way that I could understand, but in a way that made me guard my heart and while showing photos to my mom, kept my heart hardened because I never really believed that he would make the right choice.
I often joke that I always bet on the wrong horse. I knew right away that this guy lacked the foresight. I didn’t think he’d ever bet on me.
So I invested seven months. I listened, I held him. I walked him through a time so difficult that a lesser man would have cracked. Sometimes I had hope. I hoped for him. I hoped for us.
I jokingly referred to him as my FAKEBOYFRIEND.
So there. He has a hashtag. #Fakeboyfriend.
He was more in my life than anyone I’ve ever let in since my divorce.
I loved him, in my own guarded way.
We talked about an inevitable future between us. I dreamt. I told my friends who pleaded with me to sell my home and move away: But I have to see this through. He is important. He could be something, we could be something…this might be the one.
Yeah. THE ONE. The one I swallow my pride for, walk away and follow him, wherever he goes.
I crossed the Atlantic for him. I chased him across the world, acting upon his beckon call…he asked me to come and I did.
It didn’t go as I planned.
Some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Some birds are so wild and free that they may meet their mate and flutter so violently that they scare them away.
He met someone else.
It wasn’t so awful. It wasn’t dramatic. He met someone else and in the end, he decided that she was a better match for him.
It ended like it began, slowly winding down, slowly coming to and end.
I didn’t even cry.
The tears came later.
And it hurt.
Sometimes it still hurts.
But we’ll always have Croatia.
And in the end, I still have my self respect. I was able to walk away with my dignity intact. I didn’t fight for him. I am far too old, far too jaded, far too…far too strong to let it break me.
He wasn’t perfect, but he was perfect for me. And regardless of how his life winds up, I know that I will be okay.
I’m always okay.