Maroon

Although full of flaws, my previous love ^[1] was a safe, caring, stable home for five years.

Leaving that home broke me; I was convinced I would not be vulnerable with anyone else or be loved deeply again. Despite the sad ending, I don’t regret any moment with him and will be grateful for the whole experience for the rest of my life.

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On the road of exploration of the world alongside the search for answers (still unsure what exactly that is), I stumbled upon someone unexpected. It felt like a once-in-a-lifetime connection I had hoped for, daydreamed about, and what I wanted in my next romantic relationship and… my last.

The more I dove heart-first into learning more about him, the more the doubt of never being loved again faded, and the more my walls came down to feel his full intensity.

Although I was careful not to bruise again, I couldn’t help but fall willingly. From the light-hearted banter and jokes between us, our growing trust, his appreciation for the ephemeral nature of life to his curious mind and how he seemed to care about me… it was too easy to fall.

A feeling I chased after this year was freedom, and with him, I felt it more than ever.

Many nights I felt my heart overflowing with emotion when I looked over at him—appreciation for all our time together and for showing me that an end can mean the beginning.

He would ask me a lot: “where’s your mind?” There were countless summer, autumn and winter mornings as we lay under bedsheets with one thought in my mind: this could be it, he could be it ^[2]

As feelings became mutual, I hung onto his every word like poetry: his first “I love you”, his thoughts on how he saw me in his life and what we were becoming.

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Promise and hope lingered in the air — vague but present. Like the saying that trust takes years to build and only seconds to break, I see promise and hope the same way.

Blinded by the haze ^[3], I ignored warning signs that led me to be trapped in a game of push and pull. I attempted to defend myself when I became conscious of playing the game. His counter move was better: to pull me in with an apology and a glimmer of hope, only to be pushed away again with daggers.

Probably my natural optimism or, as some would describe, “naïveness” gave him chances freely. Perhaps it wasn’t that at all… maybe it was my deep-rooted fear of never being loved again.

Each time I forgave him for hurting me, I redrew the line and the threshold of what I could take. But in doing so, losing myself in him.

In a recent conversation where I asked him a simple question ^[4] on the topic of long-distance as my return home is imminent, his answer cut me deep: “I can’t guarantee how I feel about you.”

Of all the arguments, ugly truths and stupid things we’ve said and done ^[5], this trumps them all. There was truth in his words. We cannot guarantee how we will feel tomorrow; tomorrow itself is unknown.

But after the build-up of promise and hope and a recent “official” declaration of commitment from him about us, it felt like another level of some mind game I did not want to play and used up half a heart.

The foundation of trust and respect we’ve been building is a delicate string, and in every push-and-pull game we play, it got closer to snapping.

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As the dust settles, my mind lingers to the question, “is this worth it?”

I’m torn between losing a connection that means a lot to me or losing myself in crossed boundaries and the emotional turmoil I go through with the uncertainty of what we are.

Of course, it’s not just those two simple options. There is a large, complex area which houses my ability to accept what I can tolerate (how many times is enough?), to empathise with any misunderstandings (of which there have been many) and to find space to forgive genuine mistakes.

On the bright side: every disappointment has inspired a re-think of what I want in any romantic relationship I have moving forward. For now, I know a love that is a stable, caring and safe home, with the only games played are board games we play on a rainy day.

I’m still learning.