The one that got away (and never really left)

aka: how do you move on when you’re still haunted?

We all have that one.

The one we fell for like fools in a free fall.

No parachute. No plan. Just the dizzy, delusional, delicious hope that this was it.

The great love. The one we’d tell stories about. The one that cracked us open and made everything before it look like a dress rehearsal.

And then… they left.

Maybe not all at once. Maybe slowly.

Maybe they ghosted. Maybe they said it wasn’t the right time. Maybe they promised they’d come back.

But in the end, they left, and we stayed.

Stuck in the space they used to occupy.

Haunted by memories. By songs. By phantom touches and texts we still read like scripture.

And here’s the cruelest part: They don’t even have to be in our lives anymore to still be in our heads.

So when someone new comes along, someone good, someone kind, someone who sees us without the chaos, we hesitate. We hear I love you from them and flinch.

Because somewhere in the back of our mind, we’re still waiting for them.

The one that got away. The one we’ve turned into a myth.

The one who could return just when we finally feel safe again; to test us, tempt us, or worse… ruin the soft, steady love we almost let ourselves believe in.

So we sabotage.

We stay half-in, half-out.

We love carefully. Quietly.

Because we fear committing to someone who loves us… only to end up abandoned again.

We fear breaking a good heart the way ours was once broken, and living with the guilt and the grief.

It’s a tragic kind of math:

How many hearts do we break just trying to protect our own?

And at what point does protection become isolation?

Maybe the real heartbreak isn’t when someone leaves.

Maybe it’s when we stop letting ourselves be loved, because we’re still holding space for a ghost.

What are we?

aka the question that ends the thing you thought you were in

We used to date. Now we… what?

But ask what are we? 

And suddenly, there’s a glitch in the matrix.

Somewhere along the way, “relationship” became a dirty word. Too much commitment, too much pressure, too soon. So instead, we invented a dictionary of labels for what we do instead of date. And somehow, they all sound like excuses to stay ambiguous.

Situationship.

Slow-burn.

Energetic match.

Exclusive, but not official.

Just vibing.

Not ready for labels, but also don’t want you with anyone else.

It’s modern love; part connection, part confusion, and a whole lot of spiritual bypassing disguised as “going with the flow.”

And I’ll admit, sometimes it does flow.

You find someone who mirrors your wounds and your music taste. You share vulnerable voice notes and late-night cuddles. You become their emotional safe space, their therapist, their muse. You’re not “together,” but they don’t want to lose you either.

Until one day, they do.

And you’re left grieving something that never had a name.

You can’t even say you broke up. There was nothing to break.

No title. No anniversary. No shared Google calendar.

Just memories, just heartbreak, just silence.

So what do you call the thing you lost?

Because in the language of modern love, there are a million ways to be almost, and barely any ways to be real.

And maybe that’s the problem.

When we were 14, “I love you” was practically mandatory. You’d exchange a few texts, hang out at the mall, hold hands, and then, before the month was up, someone would drop the three words. I love you. Boom. Official. Now you’re a couple. Congratulations, your Facebook status can now say “in a relationship.” It was reckless, dramatic, naive… and also kind of beautiful.

Fast forward a decade and saying I love you too soon is more taboo than ghosting someone mid-text thread. In fact, saying it at all; even after months of emotional intimacy, late-night conversations, and exclusive sleepovers, feels like you’re pulling a pin on a grenade.

We used to be fearless with love. Now we treat “I love you” like it’s a confession of a crime.

How did we get here?

Somewhere between adolescence and adulting, love became a strategy instead of a feeling. Now we’re told to wait, to play it cool, to act unbothered. We read texts like tarot cards.

“Goodnight x” – is the ‘x’ a kiss or just a filler?

“He said he cares about me” – does that mean love or… like-like?

We overanalyze, over-wait, and overthink the thing that used to come out of our mouths like breathing. We used to say “I love you” because we felt it. Now we only say it when we’re sure it’s safe, or worse, when we know it won’t change anything.

And let’s be honest: as women, saying “I love you” first is like emotional Russian roulette. One wrong move and you’re “too intense,” “too emotional,” or the dreaded “too much.” You say “I love you” too soon, and suddenly he’s out the door with a half-assed excuse and a confused look like why would you say that? As if love isn’t the entire point of this whole damn thing.

But the real question is; are we actually afraid to say it?

Or are we just afraid it won’t be said back?

Because love is brave. Vulnerable. Messy. And in a world obsessed with curated perfection, algorithms, and detachment as a personality trait, love might just be the last raw, uncool thing left. Which makes it even more sacred.

So maybe, just maybe, saying I love you isn’t the problem.

Maybe being seen is.

And maybe we’re all still those 14-year-old kids; fumbling, scared, hopeful… Waiting for someone to say it first.