A few days before his departure, we planned what would be our last day together. I had prepared a lovely dinner and surprised him with a thoughtful custom gift, something meaningful just for him. As always, we started the evening with sex—our favorite way to connect. The chemistry was still electric, our bodies still fluent in each other’s language. Then came wine and rooftop conversation under the stars, a ritual we’d come to love.
It was perfect—until I dared to ask the question that had always lingered quietly between us. I’d long accepted that he claimed to be incapable of love, blaming his childhood traumas. But that night, I needed more clarity. “Have you ever had feelings for a woman?” I asked gently, not quite ready for the answer that would follow.
He paused, looked away, and admitted, “I don’t know what love is… but I met someone in another city last year. When we parted ways, we both cried. It was intense.”
His words hit like a wave. A crack in my chest. So he could feel something—just not for me.
I tried to hold it together, but my heart had already begun to crumble. We finished the wine and went to bed, though sleep never came. I lay awake, a knot in my throat, swallowed tears burning behind my eyes. At some point, I left the bed and curled up on the couch, unable to be beside him. Around 5 a.m., I returned, not wanting to make a scene.
In the morning, things felt different. No morning sex—a rare and loud silence in our language of affection. He took his calls from the balcony while I lay restless, wrapped in a silent grief. At lunch, he made us a salad. Later, he kissed me goodbye, held me a little longer, then left.
As soon as the door closed behind him, I broke.
The next day, I poured my heart into a message, explaining how hurt I felt, how his words cut deep. But he took no accountability. It hurt more than I expected. So I packed my grief and escaped to the beach for a long vacation with my best friend and his mom. I read. I journaled. I laughed. I rebuilt.
When I returned, I was stronger. More grounded. I decided he was not worth sacrificing my well-being for.
Then, two months later, on my birthday—fate played a strange joke. Both he and the Bachelor messaged me on the same day. The Doctor shared a song he produced. The Bachelor said he missed me.
With the Doctor, we rekindled a different connection: a friendship. We began talking regularly. I helped him with his social media for his music, and we even fought sometimes—but he always came back. There’s still a bond, but one redefined. Today, we share truths, support each other’s dreams, and occasionally smile at the memories.
Oddly enough, it wasn’t the Doctor who was hardest to forget. It was the Bachelor. Perhaps because I never really had closure with him. With the Doctor, everything ended clearly—even if painfully.
But that’s how healing starts: in endings that teach us how to begin again.
