This time last year the supposed love of my life reached back out. Prior to their out of the blue text, eight months of silence existed between us. I was driving home from a friend of mine’s house when I looked down at my phone.
I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the line, my brain memorized their number. ###-###-0417. The day my mom died is the last four digits of their cell.
I didn’t recognize the number at first, which is incredibly unlike me. But once it clicked, I pulled over. I was shaking. I immediately returned to my friend’s condo and had her stalk their social media for me. (The test of a true ride or die. You know I’m not wrong.)
This began an additional eight months of chaos, which sits right beside Twilight becoming a series we absolutely never needed. I’d learned my lesson. I’d done the heart-wrenching work in therapy to uncover that we never were in love. Yet I chose to dive right back in.
That additional wound plus salt equation was just under eight months ago. This all came to mind the other night as I was painting my living room. I’m in a brand-new state. We no longer share a zip code. There is no co-op to stumble upon each other, pandemic or not.
For the first time ever, I can genuinely say I don’t care
I don’t know if they know I moved, and I’ve never known if they read what I write. But for the first time ever, I can genuinely say I don’t care. I’m no longer sprinkling Easter eggs into my sentences or screaming hints through my Insta stories of poems with their name.
I have an ongoing list in the notes app on my phone of all the places their name has appeared: Grey’s Anatomy (for a trans character of all people), Spider-Man (every version), in an article cataloging every crime Trump committed, and so on.
If you know of this doppelganger type lust I’m speaking of, let me just say how incredibly sorry I am. They told me they loved me a week before texting that they were happier and healthier when we didn’t communicate. Then, somewhere along the way, I found a carbon copy of them. Complete with a dog, tattoos, and a woman they were still incredibly hung up on and everything. They told me they loved me and the very next day texted how they could no longer be in my life.
For a twenty-something human with deep-seated abandonment issues, this could have killed me. And a few years ago, it very well might have. But now I truly believe those that are meant to stay will, no matter what. And those not meant for us will find their way out, regardless of our efforts to try and keep them.
This year, my stepsister is getting married. Most of my close friends are in relationships where rings are involved or have at least been discussed, regardless of my approval. (I swear one of the seven layers of hell is watching someone you love be romantically involved with someone that sucks the life and independence out of them.)
I’d be lying if I said I don’t still worry if my person is out there
I’d be lying if I said I don’t still worry or wonder if my person is out there. Even if we don’t just have one person, maybe we have nine, or 19, or even 99. The amount doesn’t matter. It’s the fear that I might never meet and experience a good, honest, and true love.
Confession time. I’ve been obsessing about downloading a dating app now that I live in a new state, with an entirely un-swiped through zip code pool. I prepared for this possibility and assured myself that I’d focus on settling into my new place before settling into profile judgments.
It gets hard though, hearing the committee get louder. The committee is what I like to call my belief that I am not worthy if I don’t have someone pursuing me. Sometimes, the volume is at a 2.9, and other times it feels like it’s ramped up to the highest level.
You know the members, don’t know? There’s Insecurity, “if I’m single now, will I be single forever?” Jealousy, “why did they find their person before me?” Ego, “Iim the best thing around, who wouldn’t want me?” Panic, “everyone says you find them when you stop looking but how on earth does one stop looking?”
Maybe the one isn’t ready
Or maybe you can’t get that one human out of your head? Maybe, after a year, you decide to text them, let them know you hope they’re doing well, only to receive a, “Who dis?” response. Before you know it, you’re in a full spiral, Instagram-stalking the last few love interests. You find J’s dating someone new, again. JD’s unfollowed you. You’re back on Hinge, only to delete it after 24-hours. But then you give Bumble a shot.
Here’s what I’ve learned about the swiping game we’ve grown dating into. If anything, it’s reminded me just how many humans exist in the world I have zero interest in pursuing. It’s like a career. It’s almost more beneficial to know all the things we don’t want to do in exchange for a paycheck rather than all that we are interested in. At least the crossing off of options narrows down our search.
This leads me to believe that maybe they (the one, the nine, 19, or 99) aren’t ready. Maybe they are exactly where I was before I pulled my self-esteem out of the I’m worthless narrative. And if that’s the case, I want them to have more time. I want them to feel whole if and when they show up.
I also know, and this bears repeating, that there’s nothing I can do to ruin what’s meant to be in my life. Just like I know there’s nothing I can do to make someone stay who is bound to leave. This means, that human who I haven’t spoken to for over a year, who apparently didn’t save my number, was no longer meant to stay. Them leaving was easy. Sure, it hurt right to the bone for a bit, but I was able to resume normalcy. And they haven’t once tried to reconnect, which means they aren’t supposed to be a main character for the moment, if ever again.
Everyone who no longer serves me is on their way out.
As much as I want a partner, romantically, which is the main reason for this romance free year, I’m continuing to discover some of the ways my insecurities weave into all of my interpersonal relationships.
It’s natural to come together when folks share commonalities, like zip codes, to keep them connected. But I’ve had the immense privilege to hold space, in the form of phone calls and FaceTime’s, with friends I maybe haven’t seen in years, but love and respect. Humans who are remarkably brilliant and genuinely beautiful. Those connections, the ones that can pick up exactly where we’ve left off, hold so much more value than individuals who stop texting once one of you moves.
As I’ve been saying since the start, I didn’t embark on this year to come out feeling cleansed or all-knowing. I did it to reflect. To care for myself. To recognize just how deeply I have everything I need. I truly believe people need other people. But it is quality over quantity, yeah?
I used to think I’d know I’d made it once I had countless humans around me. I pictured this giant rooftop party in NYC with my 300 closest peeps. I’m beyond grateful that I retired that goal. I give all of myself, all of the time. Until you screw me over. Then I know how to hold that memory like super glue. But the difference between how I operated in May of 2020 and how I operate now is that people can come and go as they please. Relationships, friendships, etc.
Memories are great. They are magical mental photo albums. But we all are growing and evolving, or possibly backtracking, which means folks weave in and out. Feelings of longing or regret may be loud today, but they will return to the back burner eventually.
I don’t know much. What I am certain of though, is everyone I need is right here with me. Everyone who no longer serves me is on their way out. And wherever my human is, whether we have one or 19, I think they are currently figuring all of this out for themselves. And maybe we’ll meet one day and maybe we won’t. Regardless, the ones that shattered me, despite what every fictional love story tells us, aren’t it.
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Written by Tori Muzyk
Illustrated by Francesca Mariama
