I waited for him again.
Even though I told myself I wouldn't.
I sat by the window of the café, fingers wrapped around my warm tea, eyes checking the door every few minutes like a fool. It was 10:47 a.m. We were supposed to meet at 10.
No message. No call.
Just silence.
The waiter came to refill my cup, and I smiled politely, pretending I wasn't being stood up. Again.
Why did I agree to this breakfast? Why did I say yes when he texted me two nights ago with:
"Let's talk. I'll make it up to you."
A part of me still wanted to believe he meant it. That maybe this time he wouldn't let me down.
But deep down, I already knew.
Jayden always let me down. And somehow, I still showed up.
The door chimed as someone walked in. Not him.
I looked down at my phone. No new notifications.
I was tired.
Tired of waiting.
Tired of wondering if I mattered.
Tired of making excuses for a man who never made time for me.
Last night I couldn't sleep. I kept checking the clock, setting my alarm, doing my hair in the mirror, picking an outfit that looked "cute but not trying too hard."
I had dressed with hope.
Now I sat here, dressed in disappointment.
My tea had gone cold.
I pulled out my phone and opened our last text.
Jayden (Thursday, 11:06 PM): Can we meet for breakfast this weekend? My treat. I miss you.
Me: Okay. Saturday morning. 10 a.m. Greenlight Café.
Jayden: I'll be there ❤️
That red heart. So fake now.
I started typing:
"Are you still coming?"
Then I deleted it.
He knew what time we agreed on. If he wanted to show up, he would.
He just didn't.
I looked around the café. Everyone else seemed happy. Couples laughing. Friends chatting. A mom helping her daughter with her pancakes.
And there I was Ava, the girl who always showed up for the man who didn't even respect her time.
I grabbed my bag and left some cash on the table. I didn't finish my tea or my pride. Both were cold.
Back in my apartment, I kicked off my shoes and sank into the couch.
I didn't cry this time. I just sat there empty.
Why am I always the one who waits?
I wait for him to call.
I wait for him to choose me.
I wait for him to grow up.
I wait for love that feels like love but never does.
I pulled out my journal again.
Today I waited 52 minutes for a man who didn't care if I came or not.
I wore lip gloss and brushed my curls just to be ignored.
Again.
He said he'd "make it up to me." But how do you make up for years of feeling invisible?
Sasha called.
I didn't want to answer. But I did.
"Hey," I said, soft.
"He didn't show, did he?"
I sighed.
"Nope."
"Girl. You didn't deserve that."
I knew. I did. But hearing it in her voice made it real.
"Why do I keep doing this?" I asked her. "Why do I keep hoping he'll change?"
She was quiet for a second, then said:
"Because he knows how to say just enough to keep you hoping. Not too much. Just enough."
That hurt. Because it was true.
"But you know better now, Ava," she continued. "You saw this coming. You felt it. That's growth, even if it hurts."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me.
"You didn't cry this time," she added.
And that's when I realized… I didn't.
No tears. Just quiet. Tired, heavy quiet.
"That's power, Ava," she said. "You're not broken. You're just done."
Later that evening, I sat on my bed and scrolled through our old pictures Jayden and me at a music festival, on his birthday, at that rooftop bar we both liked.
I looked so happy in those photos. So full of love. So sure.
But now I saw it clearly I was the only one leaning in.
He always looked distracted. Like he had somewhere else to be.
How didn't I see it back then?
Because I was focused on the moments that felt good.
I thought if I held on tighter, he'd stay longer.
But love shouldn't feel like holding your breath.
And that's all Jayden ever made me do wait and hold my breath.
The next morning, he finally texted.
Jayden: Sorry I didn't make it. Something came up. Can we reschedule?
No explanation. No apology that felt real.
And the worst part?
He didn't even ask if I waited. Because he already knew I did.
I started typing:
"No. You can't just keep doing this to me."
Then I deleted it.
I typed again:
"I'm done waiting for you to become who I needed years ago."
But I deleted that too.
Instead, I wrote just this:
Me: No thanks.
Then I turned off my phone.
That "no thanks" was small. But to me, it felt like shouting:
"I choose me."
I made breakfast again. Same eggs. Same toast. But this time, I played music. Loud. I danced around my kitchen like a girl who didn't need a man to make her feel worthy.
Because maybe healing isn't always loud.
Sometimes it looks like quiet mornings where you don't check your phone.
Sometimes it's drinking your coffee without hoping someone texts back.
Sometimes it's leaving the café, even if you waited too long.
I'm not done healing.
But I've started walking away.
And this time, I'm not waiting for permission.
Next time someone says "I'll show up,"
I'll believe it only when they do.