She Was Sea

It’s been far too long since I’ve written like this.

For a while, my words were weaponised against me, and somewhere in the aftermath of that, the part of me that knew how to write disappeared too. My feelings stopped romanticising things. There were no more curated movies in my head, no background music, no slow-motion heartbreaks. Just reality. Sharp and unfiltered.

I’ve grown, I think.

Awareness was never my weakness. I always saw things for what they were. My problem was hope. I loved too hopefully. I still do, if I’m honest, but now it comes with realism attached to it. I’m still willing to bet on someone, but with caution this time. I’ll still open myself up, still hand someone the softer parts of me, but now I know I’ll survive even if they fail to hold them carefully.

One thing I’ve learned, bitterly, is that the people you love the most will always wound you the deepest. Your greatest loves become your deepest scars. And everyone I’ve ever truly loved has left a mark on me.

Maybe it’s my expectations. Maybe it’s the distorted way I’ve understood love all my life.

I get hurt too easily, but somehow, I’m easily convinced too.

Now let’s talk about him.

The one giving me borderline limerence vibes. The one unsettling me in all the wrong ways. The one who is probably, objectively, bad for me.

And isn’t that embarrassing?

Why is it always the wrong ones that feel the most exciting? The inconsistency. The unpredictability. The “will he, won’t he” games. The tiny moments of validation hidden between confusion. I’m almost ashamed by how aware I am while actively walking into it anyway.

But then, in the middle of all that chaos, they give you glimpses of sweetness. Small moments that feel unbearably genuine, and suddenly you’re sitting there thinking, well damn.

The truth is, I don’t think anything has bruised me more than my last relationship.

And believe me, in all my years of dating, I’ve met every kind of person imaginable. But nobody dismantled my life, my sanity, or my sense of self the way he did. I hate it. I hate him for it sometimes. I hate the choices I made for him.

But strangely enough, he also introduced me to a version of myself I’ll always be grateful for.

Not because of him, but because of me.

For the first time in my life, I realised I was capable of loving unconditionally. The kind of love books romanticise endlessly. Except there was nothing romantic about it. I was starving emotionally, being hurt under the disguise of love, convincing myself endurance was devotion.

So yes, that relationship completely rearranged my understanding of love.

But it also restored my faith in myself.

Because when everything fell apart, I met the strongest version of me in the wreckage.

I guess I should thank him for breaking me. Without it, I would never have discovered who I could become after surviving it.

Love feels different to me now.

I’m no longer the hopeless romantic I once was. I’ve become cynical in ways I never expected. Still, somewhere underneath all that cynicism, I deeply believe the love meant for me will find me if it’s written for me.

And maybe that changes the way I write from now on too.

I want to write again. Properly. Freely. I want to stop tiptoeing around my own thoughts.

I was blackmailed over my writing once. Funny now, almost unbelievable. But at the time, it shattered me. And when I needed someone to protect me, I was completely alone. I have never felt so helpless in my life. I had everything to lose, and nobody standing beside me.

So now, when people ask me what the hottest thing a man can do is, my answer is simple: Keep me safe.

That’s it. That’s the hottest thing a man can do.

Anyway.

I’m back, baby.

Stronger. Wiser. Slightly more guarded. Maybe even a little cooler too.