It started with something simple.
“One girl.
One love.
One lifetime.”
The kind of words that sound beautiful at first—
until you pause long enough to question them.
Because life is rarely that simple.
And people… even less.
So I asked —
not to challenge him, but to understand him.
“Are you saying you’ve never had a girlfriend before?”
I remembered he had said something different earlier.
And small inconsistencies have a way of whispering louder
than grand declarations.
He admitted it.
Yes, he had a girlfriend.
And just like that, the tone shifted.
“She cheated.”
There was no hesitation.
No softening.
Just a clean version of the truth —
or at least, his version of it.
He told me everything.
How she chose another man.
How she married him.
How it all ended.
That part, I understood.
Pain like that doesn’t need decoration.
But then the story went deeper.
Too deep.
He said he saw their messages.
All of them.
That he got access.
That he knew everything.
He mentioned cybercrime,
connections,
even political support.
The words felt heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Because heartbreak is one thing —
but the way he explained it
felt like control disguised as clarity.
Still, I listened.
Because sometimes
people reveal more than they intend
when they try too hard to explain.
He said she was seeing both of them
at the same time.
That neither man knew.
That when he confronted her,
she pretended he didn’t exist.
Like he was nothing.
Like he was just noise.
“I was shattered.”
That part felt real.
That kind of silence —
the kind that erases you —
hurts in a way words can’t explain.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said.
He kept it all in—
the anger, the humiliation, the questions.
“Keeping quiet helped me.”
I didn’t know if that was strength…
or just another form of breaking.
Five years, he said.
That’s how long it took him to heal.
And yet,
he was telling me all of this now —
openly, quickly.
Almost like he wanted me
to see him a certain way.
Then came the ending.
“She is regretting now.”
“Her marriage is failing.”
“It’s karma.”
I listened,
but something in me stayed quiet.
Because sometimes
“karma”
sounds less like peace—
and more like closure
someone is
trying to convince themselves of.
I told him it felt like a movie.
“This is what I’ve been through.”
And I believed him.
But belief doesn’t mean blindness.
I told him I was sorry.
Because pain —
real or not fully understood —
is still pain.
He said he was fine.
That he had healed.
And just like that,
the conversation shifted again.
Back to something lighter.
Safer.
Dinner. Food. Small talk.
I told him I don’t eat much at night,
that I’m almost vegan.
“I can be vegan,” he said.
Just like that. Another easy alignment.
“I’m a good cook.
You can help me in the kitchen.”
It sounded playful.
Almost intimate.
Like a future quietly slipping into the present.
I laughed it off.
Sometimes the easiest way to stay grounded
is to keep things light.
He called me “dear.” I teased him.
“That’s what my mom calls me.”
“Ok babe… or love,” he replied.
I stopped him there.
“Too early for that.”
Because it was.
He laughed it off, said he was joking.
But I noticed how quickly he moved forward —
how easily he stepped into closeness.
So I softened it again.
Turned it into humor.
Called him Vicks —
like Vicks Vaporub.
Something harmless.
Something that kept things
from getting too serious.
We ended the night gently.
A few laughs. A quiet goodnight.
But underneath it all,
there were still thoughts I didn’t say.
About how fast he spoke.
How intense his past sounded.
How easily he shifted from pain…
to romance… to familiarity.
And how I found myself doing the same —
balancing between curiosity and caution,
between listening and quietly observing.
Because sometimes,
it’s not the big words that reveal someone.
It’s the small moments in between —
where things feel just a little too fast,
a little too smooth, a little too practiced.
And I wasn’t sure yet
if I was reading a story—
or slowly
becoming part of one.
~
Next Post:
Previous Post:
Comments
Post a Comment
Thank u (^_^)