THE NIGHT I BROKE MY OWN RULES
There's a specific kind of loneliness that doesn't come from being alone.
It comes from being with someone who makes you feel invisible.
Yamal had mastered that kind of loneliness.
He never said he didn't love me.
He never said I didn't matter.
He simply existed in a way that made me question both.
And somehow, that hurt more.
Because pain without explanation leaves you trapped inside your own thoughts.
Wondering.
Overthinking.
Destroying yourself with possibilities.
Our first kiss wasn't romantic.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't the kind of moment people write poetry about.
It happened under the staircase at school.
Hidden.
Forgotten.
Like it didn't deserve sunlight.
I remember how nervous I felt standing there, my back against the cold wall, my heart beating so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
Close enough that I could feel his breath against my skin.
"Why do you look at me like that?" he asked quietly.
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
Because I had spent three years watching him before he ever belonged to me.
Because I loved him long before he loved me back.
His hand touched my face gently, tilting my chin upward.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't slow.
It was uncertain.
But it was real.
And in that moment, it was everything.
I closed my eyes and let myself fall into it, into him, into the illusion that this meant something permanent.
I didn't know then that it was only temporary.
That most of our love would exist in hidden places.
In shadows.
In secrecy.
In silence.
Things changed after that.
Not immediately.
But slowly.
Subtly.
Dangerously.
He became comfortable.
Too comfortable.
He stopped trying.
Stopped chasing.
Stopped proving.
He knew he had me.
And possession changes people.
During our final exams, everything fell apart quietly.
I was overwhelmed. Exhausted. Afraid.
My future depended on those exams.
Everything did.
I remember sitting on the floor outside the classroom, my hands trembling, tears falling silently down my face.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't think.
I couldn't stop the feeling that I was failing before I had even begun.
I called him.
He answered.
"I'm scared," I whispered.
There was a pause.
Then I heard laughter.
Not his.
His friends.
"I'm busy," he said.
And then he hung up.
Just like that.
No reassurance.
No comfort.
No love.
Just absence.
I sat there alone, staring at my phone, wondering how someone could mean everything to you and still choose everything else over you.
That was the moment something inside me began to die.
Later, he told me something I never forgot.
"You're not good enough to study medicine," he said casually. "You're not the smartest."
He said it like it was truth.
Not opinion.
Truth.
And I believed him.
Because when you love someone, their words become louder than your own thoughts.
His voice became the voice inside my head.
The one that doubted me.
The one that broke me.
But I stayed.
I always stayed.
I snuck out at night just to see him.
Just to feel close to him.
Just to remind myself that I still belonged somewhere.
We'd sit together in the dark, talking about nothing, touching like the world didn't exist beyond us.
Those moments felt real.
They felt safe.
They felt like love.
But love isn't supposed to make you feel temporary.
Love isn't supposed to make you question your worth.
Love isn't supposed to hurt more than it heals.
When high school ended, we made promises.
Promises that meant everything to me.
Promises that meant nothing to him.
"We'll stay loyal," he said.
"I promise," I whispered.
I believed him.
Because I wanted to believe in something.
In anything.
In us.
I didn't know then how fragile promises were.
How easily they could break.
How easily he could break me.
It was weeks later when the loneliness became unbearable.
Not because he had left.
But because he was still there.
Half-present.
Half-loving.
Half-gone.
And I was still holding on completely.
That was my weakness.
I loved completely.
Even when I was only loved halfway.
That night, I sat alone in my room.
The house was silent.
Cold.
Empty.
My phone lay beside me, glowing faintly in the darkness.
I stared at it for a long time.
My thoughts loud.
My heart louder.
I needed someone to understand me.
Someone who would listen.
Someone who would see me.
Not the version of me everyone else saw.
The real me.
The broken me.
The lonely me.
My fingers hovered over the screen.
I hesitated.
I knew I shouldn't.
I knew it was dangerous.
I knew it could change everything.
But loneliness makes you desperate.
And desperation makes you reckless.
I opened the message.
Typed the words.
Read them once.
Twice.
Three times.
My heart pounded violently in my chest.
This was a mistake.
I knew it.
I felt it.
And yet…
I pressed send.
I didn't know then that this message would ruin everything.
I didn't know then that this person would change my life.
I didn't know then that some mistakes don't feel like mistakes at first.
They feel like relief.
And as I stared at the screen, waiting for a reply, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
And that was the most dangerous part of all.