How do you close a chapter you didn’t even realize had become the most honest chapter of your life?
I think that’s what I’m trying to understand as I write this. My so called Eat Pray Love journey was supposed to teach me everything except this. Barcelona gave me passion. London handed me peace. Vietnam held my inner child and reminded him he was safe. Japan showed me truths even when I tried to run from them. And the whole time, I told myself that Paris, the city of romance would be where I finally felt loved.
But instead, love found me here. In Los Angeles.In you, a person I never expected to feel anything real for. I keep thinking about the beginning. Our first date, where I jaywalked through Los Feliz to meet you, where we wandered the streets and shared fries at Figaro, talking trash about monogamy like two people pretending we weren’t already becoming something. Our second date, where you drove two hours to be my plus one at a one year old’s birthday party of all things, our shared indifference for children somehow making it even funnier. Our third date, when you brought me orange roses, not my usual choice, but so perfectly you, unexpected, joyful and warm. We spent the rest of the night listening and dancing to jazz at the LACMA under the full moon. Then there was the night I was sick, vomiting, exhausted, miserable. You took care of me, brought me water, checked on me, placed a pillow between us when I passed out. It was such a simple gesture, but it made me feel safe in a way that scared me. It was too fast, too close, too intimate.
And because of that, because I am who I am, I disappeared. I flew to Amsterdam thinking it was supposed to fill something in me, but instead it showed me everything I was scared to admit. I got lost out there, in the Dutch suburbs and emotionally in myself. I remember scrolling through my phone, trying to find just one person I could burden with my fear. There wasn’t anyone. Until you texted. We FaceTimed, and you stayed with me until I was on the right bus, heading in the right direction. It was the first time in a long time that someone cared whether I made it home.
When I came back, you picked me up from the airport. I was in a mood I couldn’t name, maybe seasonal depression, maybe the slow recognition of something I hadn’t felt in years. I disappeared again after that. I didn’t know if it was coping or sabotage or protecting myself. Maybe all three.
But when we saw each other again, something had shifted. Our date was quiet, candlelight, drinks, conversation that felt honest. That’s when you told me you had fallen for me. And in the most predictable way, I choked you, asserted dominance, pretended I didn’t hear it.
And then Universal Studios, where you asked me to be your girlfriend between The Simpsons and Harry Potter. I shrieked and ran, you chased me through Super Mario Kingdom like two kids without supervision. Then I met your friends, the important ones, you said. I resisted, then gave in. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I had to shrink or soften or perform. I showed up fully as myself. And I was welcomed. I was seen. I was safe.
As your departure got closer, my feelings got louder. At your goodbye dinner with your friends, you said your feelings for me out loud. No hesitation. No shame. Just truth. And as someone who barely compliments men at all, I was moved. After packing, you held me from behind in the kitchen, exactly the way I love, and thanked me for the time we had. You told me you loved me, and that no matter what, if I ever felt lost again, I could call you. And then you cried.
I froze. I didn’t know how to hold it, how to hold you, how to admit what was happening inside me. But then I walked back to you, wrapped my arms around you, an embrace, not a hug and for the first time in a long time, I cried too. Really cried.
They say that hugging someone you care for for twenty two seconds could release stress. If that’s true, then hugging you for a whole minute freed me. Freed me from my walls that I built to prevent me from being vulnerable. Freed me from fear of the routines . Freed me from the idea that safety is a trap. We accepted our feelings. We accepted a kind of love that wasn’t familiar to me, but was real nonetheless. Maybe the most honest kind I’ve ever known. So I made a choice, a mature one, for once. Seven months without contact. Seven months of real life, lived separately. Seven months to see if this was temporary magic or something real. If we still feel something by then, we’ll reach out. If not, we’ll let this chapter close the way it opened, unexpectedly and honestly. So until then, thank you. For seeing me. For holding me when I was lost. For letting me show up without shrinking.For giving me a kind of love I didn’t think I could feel again. I’ve been told “I love you” three times this year. But you’re the only one I said it back to.And I meant it.
I love you, K.
