Monochrome love

 

I’ve only truly dated once in my life. It was in high school, the kind of sweet, harmless affection we label “puppy love.” After that, I built walls. Love seemed like a risk, and I wasn’t willing to gamble my peace for a maybe.

But then, after a string of forgettable dates, I met him.

He wasn’t what I had in mind. Too grey, too wild, too uncertain. But something about the way he looked at me like he could see through the mask I didn’t know I was wearing, unraveled me. I wasn’t looking for love, which is probably why I fell so hard. We always want what we can’t have, right?

He made me feel electric like I was alive in a way I hadn’t felt before. I did things I’d never done. I laughed louder, stayed up later, said yes to things that terrified me. I broke my own rules. Most of my firsts were with him. And firsts, even if they don’t last, always leave marks.

I loved him freely, fiercely, foolishly. I didn’t care that it wasn’t mutual. I convinced myself it was enough to just love. And for a while, it was. Until it wasn’t.

Because love, at some point, needs to be returned.

He was a void, and I poured myself into him every kind word, every touch, every sleepless night spent trying to decode a text. I wasn’t his partner; I was his audience. The girl who listened, who soothed, who stayed.

When he was broken, I held him. I believed my love could heal him. And maybe, for a second, it did. But it cost me pieces of myself, pieces I’m still trying to get back.

The highs were euphoric. Nights with him were soundtracked by John Mayer and Chet Faker. We'd sit on balconies in the rain, share cigarettes, lose ourselves in silences that felt like forever. But the lows? They were gutting.

He’d disappear for days. Reappear with promises. Then vanish again.

He once texted my best friend, telling her he wanted to sleep with her. That should’ve ended everything. But when you’re in love with the idea of someone, reality doesn’t stand a chance.

I let him back in. Again and again.

Until the night he asked me to kiss his cousin. And I did. To prove I could play the game. To prove I was unbothered. I wasn’t.

I kept telling myself I was choosing this. That I was powerful. But that’s the thing about trauma, it convinces you that endurance is strength, when sometimes, it’s just self-betrayal.

Eventually, I walked away. Or tried to. I blocked him. Deleted every photo, every text. But grief doesn’t respect boundaries. It creeps in through songs, smells, old jokes. And three months later, he texted again.

I said yes.

We met. We laughed. We slipped back into something familiar. And then, he told me casually, like it was nothing, that he was in love with someone else. That he wasn’t a cheater. He said this while staring at my lips.

And somehow, even then, I kissed him.

I wanted one last moment. One last hit of the high. But I stopped myself. I pulled away. For the first time, I didn’t give him all of me.

As he walked out, he handed me his cigarette. “You take it,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know what I’m doing." And just like that, he was gone.

I sat there, staring at the door, the silence swallowing me whole. Wondering how he moved on so fast.

How I meant so little. But I think I knew the answer.

I wasn’t his person. I was his place. The safe one. The soft one. The girl who listened without judgment.

Who gave without asking. Sometimes we tell ourselves we’re special in someone’s story. And sometimes, the hardest truth is that we were just a supporting character in theirs while they were the lead in ours.