I learned something truly horrifying about me last night. I am a pushover in my romantic relationships, even when I’m half-assing them. When, after a fight last night, I couldn’t sleep and kept randomly bursting into tears, I thought back to my first boyfriend, and then it hit me. Sooner or later, I turn into a doormat in most relationships with men. Even yesterday, in the middle of a fight with someone I don’t even consider my boyfriend – but I guess he was, don’t ask, it’s complicated – I was the one who called back, only to realise I can’t.

Despite all the toxicity and wrongness of this equation, I haven’t been able to sit still since morning because I am not talking to him. Or, well, he is not talking to me. I keep telling anyone who would care to listen that this is not what I want. This is not who I want. I am not what he wants. We are wrong for each other and because life isn’t a movie that is not romantic, it’s just sad. I think I place too much importance on the eight years. Knowing someone consistently for eight years, then dating them on and off for some time, how much can that account for, really? If I were to calculate all the time actually spent together, it’s probably not even two years. And two years is not a big deal in your 20s. Or is it? I just want to understand what it is that keeps me tied to him.

At first, this time, it was boredom. Then a sense of emotional obligation and genuine concern. But then I was bored again. And yet. And yet. I have this opportunity to bow out of this frankly going-nowhere equation and I am devastated. It could be the hormones. It could be that I’m starved for attention. But how pathetic do I have to be for that to be a valid reason to form any human connection. I agree, hand on heart, that we are not meant to last. We are not suited to each other. And that, ultimately, this had to happen. So if the universe is trying to save us more pain later and ending it like this with a lot of bitterness but no bitter words actually spoken out loud, why can’t I just accept it and move the fuck on?

I don’t even know why I am writing all this here, on a blog that even I don’t read anymore. Maybe to get some clarity. Maybe so that three months later I can come back, read this, and feel better about the fact that I don’t feel like this anymore. Because if I feel like this even three months later, I’m probably in love, right? And I’m unable to see it. Either way, I lose. I’ve been losing a lot. I don’t like it.