She said I was her first boyfriend.
“You’re my first too,” I told her.
It was true. I hadn’t dated anyone before her. A friend introduced us, and suddenly, I was in the game. I wasn’t a relationship expert. I didn’t have a PhD in love. But I’d read enough, listened to enough friends’ disasters, and watched enough movies to know what to do.

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I had this naive idea that if I loved someone right, everything would work out. Like love was a math problem: input kindness, output happiness. So I went all in. I texted. I called. I listened. She loved to talk, and I loved to listen. Then she’d listen while I talked. We talked about everything—her dreams, my fears, the meaning of life.

I’m an introvert. I like my cave. But she dragged me out of it. For her, I’d go anywhere. Do anything. I even let her see the parts of me I usually keep locked away.

When we started dating, I’d just graduated college. She was fresh out of high school, prepping for university. I knew things would change when she left. So I made a plan: we’d bond so deeply that distance wouldn’t matter. We’d build a foundation so strong that time new guys and hall parties couldn’t crack it.

We tried. We really did. We talked for hours. We made promises. We laughed. We dreamed. Then January came, and she left for school.

Before she left, we had the talk. You know the one. How often we’d call. How long we’d talk. How we’d make it work. She’s a good person—kind, honest, the type who remembers your favourite thing and texts you when it’s raining. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

“When they ask you about your ideal man,” I told her, “I want my name to pop into your head.”

I trusted her 100%. I thought she trusted me the same way. I’d whisper to myself, “This is it. She’s the one. There’s no life after her.”

But here’s the thing: you can plan your whole life around someone, and it doesn’t mean they’re planning theirs around you.

February 9th. I remember the date because it felt like a punch to the gut. She texted me: “Let’s break up.”

My heart stopped. I called her, panicking. She laughed. “Relax! It’s a joke. I could never leave you.”

I should’ve known then. Jokes are never just jokes.

A few days later, the laughter turned to silence. She stopped answering my calls. My texts went unanswered. Radio silence. I was worried. This wasn’t like her.

When she finally called back, it wasn’t to apologize. It was to end it. “We’re done,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

She couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer.

There was no fight. No big misunderstanding. Just… poof. Gone.

“Can we fix this?” I begged. “If it’s about school, we can figure it out.”

“You’ll never understand,” she said.

But here’s the kicker: she still texts me. She still calls. She says she wants to be friends.

Friends.

I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to block her forever. Every time I hear her voice, I feel betrayed. We were fine. We were happy. Why would she do this?

That Is The Craziest Thing I’ve Ever Done In The Name Of Love

Maybe she’s scared. Maybe she’s confused. Maybe she met someone else. I don’t know. What I do know is this: you can’t force someone to stay. You can’t love someone into loving you back.

So I’m giving her space. If she comes back, great. If she doesn’t, I’ll block her number, delete her photos, and try to forget the sound of her laugh.

Because here’s the truth: love isn’t a math problem. It’s a gamble. And sometimes, you lose.

—James 

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