I wasn't looking for her.
That's the part I always come back to.
I wasn't searching.
I wasn't praying for someone new.
I wasn't trying to fill a void.
I was just living.
Existing in my own quiet rhythm.
Focused on my own goals.
Comfortable in my solitude.
Then she laughed.
It wasn't dramatic.
No wind blowing.
No slow-motion moment.
Just a laugh.
But it was the kind that didn't ask for permission.
It filled the space naturally.
Confident. Light. Alive.
And somehow… I noticed.
Not because she was the loudest in the room.
But because when she laughed, she meant it.
And I think I've always been drawn to people who feel real.
That day we talked, it wasn't deep.
Just random things.
Music. Small complaints. Jokes that weren't even that funny.
But she listened.
Actually listened.
And when someone listens to you in a way that feels intentional,
you start unfolding parts of yourself you didn't even know were waiting.
She made eye contact.
Held it.
Like I wasn't background noise.
Like I mattered.
And that does something to you.
Especially when you didn't realize you were craving that feeling.
Days turned into conversations.
Conversations turned into routines.
She would text first sometimes.
Call unexpectedly.
Send voice notes that sounded like she was smiling while recording them.
And I'd replay them over and over again.
Not because I was obsessed.
But because I liked how she said my name.
There's something dangerous about hearing your name said gently by someone you're starting to care about, especially when it's mispronounced by most people.
It makes you feel chosen.
And I hadn't felt chosen in a long time.
She'd ask about my day.
Tell me about hers.
Complain about things that frustrated her.
I listened carefully.
I remembered details.
Her favorite drink. The way she hated being misunderstood. The way she liked reassurance but pretended she didn't need it.
I wanted to be different from the rest.
I wanted to be the one who stayed.
And she made it easy.
Or at least, that's what I believed.
Looking back now, I see how quickly I adjusted to her.
How naturally I started prioritizing her moods.
If she was happy, I felt light.
If she was distant, I felt restless.
But at the time, it didn't feel unhealthy.
It felt like caring.
That's how illusions work.
They don't announce themselves.
They just feel like warmth.
She made me feel seen.
And when someone makes you feel seen,
you don't question whether they see you fully.
You just enjoy the light.
There were moments — small ones —
where conversations somehow returned to her.
Her stress. Her problems. Her feelings.
I didn't mind.
Love, I thought, meant being supportive.
If she needed reassurance, I gave it.
If she needed space, I respected it.
If she was cold one day and warm the next,
I told myself she was just "complicated."
I admired that about her.
Or maybe I romanticized it.
Either way, I leaned in.
Harder.
Because when it was good,
it was really good.
She'd laugh at my jokes.
Tell me I was different.
Say I understood her better than anyone else.
And that's when it really began.
Because once someone tells you you're special in their world —
you start building your world around them.
I didn't notice how much I was giving.
Because I wasn't counting.
I didn't notice how often I adjusted.
Because I thought compromise was maturity.
I didn't notice how quiet my own needs were becoming.
Because hers felt louder.
At first?
It felt perfect.
Not perfect in a fairy-tale way.
Perfect in a calm, grounded way.
Like maybe this time
I wouldn't have to fight to be enough.
Like maybe this time
love would feel steady.
And in those early days,
when she looked at me with that soft focus —
I believed it.
I believed her.
I believed us.
And maybe that was the beginning.
Or maybe…
that was the first thing I didn't see.