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Requiem for a girl lost in love.

I gave so much of myself to arms too weak to hold me. Lost sight of the girl I was, and called it “love”.

It came quietly. In the tattoo I chose not to cover up. In the way I did my hair. The way I did my makeup. The way I dressed. And then, one day, it was so, so loud. I stopped eating—anxious about how he might perceive me. I thought small meant ladylike. Quiet meant kind.

I was malnourished in love. Begging for empathy—for warmth. The girl I once was—full of life and light—gone.

Then, one day, it ended. The future I envisioned snuffed out. My whole world collapsed and I was left in the rubble looking for something—anything—salvageable. Frozen with shock while my life had been set ablaze. I had lived twenty-three years without him and, somehow, in two years could not imagine a life without him.

I clung onto him, probably too tight. Wrote love poems and sent them at odd hours. Begging to be loved. All while he danced with strange women, seemingly living the life he had wanted to live all along. A life where he could walk in and out of my life freely—no longer obligated to care for me, choosing when to give a fuck.

He brought me a gift on my birthday and took me on a date that weekend. It was like the old times. A flicker of hope warmed in my chest; maybe he’ll come back. Four months later I learned he took another girl on a date that same day. I was at his apartment a week later. A woman’s name was written on his calendar. Naturally, I asked who she was.

“Nobody.”

I wrote my name on his calendar, too. Two days later, I was at his apartment. Both names had been erased. That’s when it clicked; I was disposable. I had served my purpose of bolstering his ego and when I required something of him, be it comfort or empathy or kindness, he would leave. Not the future I envisioned, but certainly the future I had signed up for in choosing to keep him in my life.

So we stopped talking. And I wish I could say that I never reached out again. I wish I could say I felt stronger and happier right away. I didn’t. It got so much worse, so much darker.

One night, I dreamt we were together again. Things felt okay; I was happy. And then I couldn’t breathe. My chest was tight, the room was closing in around me. No matter what he did, the feeling persisted. When I awoke, the feeling dissipated immediately. The next night, I dreamt of a friend. I was packing a suitcase—presumably leaving to some far away place. The suitcase, for some reason, was too small for my belongings. No matter how much I rearranged and moved things around, they just would not fit. I had resigned myself to giving some things away when my friend walked in with a bigger suitcase, knelt down beside me, and helped me pack.

I heard from that friend for the first time in a year in a half two weeks ago. He was apologetic. Said he had been a terrible friend. Said that he missed me. Said he’d reach out soon so we could catch up. I’m not sure what “soon” means in this situation, but I know that he always arrives right when I need him. I trust that will be true this time around, too.

I look back at the girl I became when I was in that relationship. How small she was—folding herself up to fit into a world that was not built for her. It hurts to think of how lost she was, how scared she was of losing someone who never cared. And though I am stronger now, I’m not sure if I am strong enough to go back and get her. Not yet. But I pray that she just stays put a little while longer. I’ll be there soon. She won’t have to be alone forever.