It took weeks to stop reaching for my phone. Not because I still expected him to text—but because my body had gotten used to the hope. That sick little spark that lights up even when you know better. The flicker in your chest when a notification pings, even if it's just Shopee or some random news app.
The waiting had become muscle memory. Check phone. Re-read old threads. Decode half-sentences that once made me feel seen. Check the timestamp. Wonder why 2:14 a.m. felt more intimate than anything said in daylight.
Julian was a ghost, but he'd haunted me like someone still alive. And the worst part? I missed the haunting.
Because if I stopped longing, I'd have to look at what was underneath it. And underneath it was this: I had mistaken attention for affection. Intensity for intimacy. Ambiguity for depth.
We sent each other essays at 2 a.m. and called it connection. We danced in circles of emotion, but we never actually built anything. No plans. No direction. Just philosophical flirtation dressed up as destiny.
Julian was never mine. And maybe that's why I wanted him.
Because if he didn't belong, then neither did I. And that meant I didn't have to risk real love—only the fantasy of it.
I loved the chase. The "maybe this time." The high of being chosen for one night. The ache of almost.
There's something seductive about the in-between. You can romanticize anything that hasn't fully happened. And I did. I turned maybes into poetry. Turned inconsistencies into signs. Turned distance into depth.
I wrote verses in my head about him while brushing my teeth. Listened to sad music on purpose. I reread his messages like scripture, looking for hidden meanings, some divine reassurance that I wasn't imagining it all.
I told myself it was cosmic. That we met for a reason. That he saw my soul.
But really—we had timing issues and trauma wounds that liked to hold hands. We were two people addicted to the idea of connection more than the practice of it.
He taught me something, though. Not through presence—but through absence.
He showed me what I still craved: Validation. Chaos. Stories.
Because stories let you stay in control. You get to decide what meant what. You get to rewrite the ending. I could keep him alive in memory, sculpt him into someone he never really was.
But real love? It's not a metaphor. It's showing up. It's staying. It's boring sometimes. It's real.
Julian was never going to give me that. Because that kind of love requires clarity. And clarity was something neither of us had. Maybe he never learned how to be consistent. Maybe I never learned how to let go of ambiguity without blaming myself.
I finally deleted our messages. Not in anger. In release.
And as the screen went blank, I whispered, not bitter but clear: "I wasn't in love with Julian. I was in love with the version of myself that thought winning him meant I was worthy."
It hit me then—how many versions of myself I had played to be loved. The cool girl. The deep girl. The one who never asks for too much. The mirror. The muse. The midnight mystery.
But I don't want to audition anymore. I don't want to be a character in someone else's poem. I want to be the whole story.
I didn't need another riddle. I needed a reason to stop running toward people who only offered me mirrors in the dark.
So I gave myself one. I started journaling in the mornings, not just when I was heartbroken. I bought fresh flowers for my condo every Sunday. I sat at cafés without checking who might walk through the door.
I took myself to the movies. Ordered popcorn for one. I smiled at strangers without hoping they'd stay.
And slowly, my days filled with things not connected to him. Or any him. Just me.
I went back to therapy. I cried without shame. I let my friends in instead of performing wellness. I said yes to a solo trip to Cebu, where I watched the sunrise over the water and felt, for the first time in months, completely whole.
I danced at a wedding alone. I painted my nails red again. I forgave myself for all the ways I confused pain with romance. I went on long walks without headphones. I stared at the moon without pretending it was a metaphor for him.
The girl who once chased ghosts, now chasing sunlight. The woman who thought she had to earn love, now learning to receive peace.
Not every healing looks like a breakthrough. Sometimes, it looks like brushing your hair and making eggs. Sometimes, it looks like choosing yourself before the ache even begins.
I am not a story that needs unraveling. I am not a mystery to be solved. I am a home. And I deserve to stay.
If one day, someone knocks on the door of this home—someone who doesn't speak in riddles, who doesn't run at the first sign of daylight—I'll open it. Not out of hunger. But because I am already full.
And if no one comes, that's okay too. Because I've built a life I no longer want to escape from.
I fall asleep now without waiting. I wake up without checking. I go outside without needing to be seen. I drink my coffee slowly. I laugh more easily. I stay.
I am not chasing anymore. I am arriving.