Some people say your past shapes who you are. I say, "Sure—if you let it punch you in the face first."
So here it is. The part where I explain why I am the way I am.
Why I don't do drama, don't do clingy, and definitely don't do second chances.
Not anymore.
It started small. Like most disasters.
It started online—of course it did.
Why, you ask? Because I was a homebody with maybe two real-life friends and a fear of
actual sunlight. Introvert, if you want to be polite about it. No one really heard the voice in my head. Honestly, they wouldn't have known what to do with it anyway.
Back then, I didn't even fall in love with him.
I fell in love with being seen.
With the attention. The sweet, addictive lie that I mattered.
Mind you—I was sixteen. Just a dumb kid with a school bag full of hormones and unhealed wounds.
My parents used to say, "No dating until you're twenty."
Naturally, I heard: "Date in secret like a ninja."
Which I did. Brilliantly. Until it wasn't.
He approached me. He was kind.
He said all the right things at all the wrong times. He became my anchor when my supposedly "peaceful" home life turned into a full-blown emotional demolition site.
That's the one thing I'll always give him credit for. He made me feel less alone—until he didn't. Because eventually, it all turned into a slow-burning nightmare.
What he showed me online? That wasn't the full truth.
His name. His personality. Even his face.
Turns out, I'd been dating a walking identity crisis.
I found out when he confessed it all during a dramatic emotional breakdown. Like ripping off a mask he'd worn too long—except instead of applause, all I had were trust issues and Wi-Fi regret.
And I didn't even get mad at first.
I thought, "Okay… maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe I should try to understand."
Spoiler: I should not have tried to understand.
Looking back, that was the moment I should've run. But I stayed.
For three and a half years.
Three. And. A. Half. Years.
That's longer than some people keep plants alive.
You might think I was naïve. Soft-hearted.
Same. Honestly, the same.
But when I finally broke up with him, it felt like I had just pulled myself out from under a collapsed building. Emotionally crushed. Spiritually suffocated. While I was carrying my own burdens, I had been dragging his behind me like emotional luggage with no wheels.
I remember going back to my hostel after the breakup and sleeping like the dead.
And when I woke up? It felt like I'd just come back from war. I was twenty-one, but I felt like a war veteran in a college hoodie.
But I didn't cry for long.
I didn't have the time. There was no dramatic breakdown montage. No sad music. Just me, brushing off the debris and quietly rebuilding.
No one knew about the relationship—not really. Only a few close friends. So there were no whispers, no judgment, no overly peppy "you'll find someone better" speeches. Thank God.
I moved on. But I also moved away—from love. From the idea of giving someone else that much access to my peace.
People said I seemed cold after that.
Cold?
No. I wasn't cold.
I was learning to breathe without choking on old memories.
So, I stopped showing people the soft parts.
I stopped apologizing for not being easy to figure out.
If I seem harsh, it's because I built walls after realizing no one else was going to protect me. Not bitter. Just exhausted. There's a difference.
And no, this isn't a sob story.
I told you from the beginning—this isn't some tragic romance with a piano soundtrack.
This is just Chapter Two.
The part where I learned how to live a life that's actually mine.
And if I'm a little rough around the edges now?
Good.
Because at least I don't break as easily anymore.