Limiting contact with him was supposed to bring me peace. Honestly, I thought I'd feel relieved. Like finally, I'd be able to breathe again without that constant pull. And for a few days, it almost worked. A whole week—that's the most we managed—before he texted saying he was leaving the organization for good.
And weirdly enough, instead of feeling free, my heart just… dropped.
I thought I'd be happy getting an excuse to maintain distance, but it turned out to be the complete opposite. I missed him. Already. And he hadn't even left yet. To make things worse, the last message I sent him was so bad—I don't even know what possessed me to type it—and then I accidentally deleted it. So now there was guilt mixed into everything too.
Such a terrible combination: guilt + missing someone + pretending I don't.
I kept going back and forth between keeping my distance and the fear of losing him completely. I know I'm bad with goodbyes, but I didn't think I was this bad.
Eventually I caved. Yesterday, I texted him just to get rid of the guilt that was eating me alive. I told myself I was checking up on him, that it was normal, but the truth is… I needed to feel okay. I needed to not leave things messy.
And while I was rethinking everything, I realized something huge: I don't even want a PhD. The only reason I had been obsessing over it was because he was leaving and I was trying to convince myself that I could still somehow follow the same path as him. Just to stay close.
God, I didn't realize how messed up that was until I snapped myself out of it.
So, I texted him. Something normal. Something safe. Told him how busy I was and congratulated him again. He sent four replies at first, but by the time I opened my phone, he had deleted three. Only "thanks, it's okay" remained. And honestly? That was enough. Perfect even. Low commitment, no intensity, nothing dramatic. Exactly what I wanted—connection without conflict.
But as the guilt faded, something else surfaced.
I used to like him. A lot. But now… I don't know if I still do. That liking has shifted into something softer, quieter. But what surprises me is how much I still miss the time we spent at the library. Sometimes I feel like the boy from back then and the man he is now are two completely different people. The one I fell for was the library version—long wavy hair, soft clothes, a calm silence that matched mine. The version I found later, after work began for both of us, felt different. Still him. Still familiar. But not the same.
Maybe that's why everything feels off. Back then, we were both in our "peace era." I had just decided to take things slow, to learn at my own pace. And he was—well—basically the human representation of rest. That's literally why I approached him in the first place.
Even our last day at the library matched. Same day. Same sunset. As if the universe itself said: that's enough now.
After that, real life started. He got offered a job at his college. My house job started too. Suddenly, both of us were swallowed by work. And yet, back then, life somehow still felt manageable. I barely had patients, so I'd get free early. And even though we didn't talk much or share anything too deep, the energy was still so good between us. Soft. Light. Nothing like the heaviness that came later.
Then came his NGO job. He became department head. And honestly? I was shocked. Amused too. Non-profit work had always been something I admired; I'd volunteered for years without expecting anything. It never even occurred to me that people could get paid for that. So seeing him jump into something that aligned so perfectly with what I believed in… it did something to me. A mix of pride, envy, and confusion.
He was two years older, so logically he'd progress faster. I told myself that. Over and over. But then there was this sting I couldn't shake off. I was also getting paid—technically—but house job salary doesn't count. And I felt so behind.
It was frustrating because it felt like I was working myself to death while he was just… flowing. Treading water without even trying. Patients ran away from me, but opportunities ran toward him. People liked him instantly. He got job offers, admiration, even casual relationship proposals. And here I was, chasing people, chasing progress, chasing something I couldn't name.
Maybe that's why the PhD news hurt. When we talked about it once, it sounded so vague, so unimportant. Almost like he didn't care about it. And then suddenly he got in. Just like that.
It felt like a stab. A silent one.
Because I had mentally prepared myself for his version of life—"fuqr," like he called it. I had convinced myself and even my family that money didn't matter. That we could live without it. I had imagined living with him even if he earned nothing. But he never said anything about commitment. Not once. And yet, I had already built an entire future around him.
The truth is: I approached him with the idea of marriage from day one. Every time we met, I'd imagine what he'd be like as a husband. As a father. As someone I'd come home to.
I was down catastrophically bad.
And then it hit me: what I felt for him wasn't love. It was limerence. The timing was too perfect. The loneliness, the peace, the novelty—it all lined up. And while there were moments I felt sad after meeting him, most of that month was peaceful. Calm in a way I hadn't felt in years. I loved his company. I loved who I became around him. And deep down, that's what I miss more than him.
It's the same thing I felt with my best friend. I missed her, yes, but what I really mourned was the version of myself that existed with her. Soft. Open. Connected. And like her, the time with him was brief, beautiful, and temporary.
And maybe that was all it was ever meant to be, a soft season. Something fleeting. Something that made me feel alive just long enough to remind me who I could be.