He was never my Forever

He was all the things I never knew I craved — dangerous, magnetic, and loud. And I was that girl… the quiet one with a heart too open for this world.

It started like any modern-day fairy tale: a DM request, a fire emoji, and a casual “You’re actually stunning.”

I almost didn’t reply.

He was the athlete everyone in town knew. Tall, sculpted, and always surrounded by noise — teammates, parties, fast cars, faster girls. And me? I was the church girl. Sundays were sacred. I still believed in soulmates and small gestures. I still prayed before meals. I was the girl who had rules.

But something about him disarmed me.

Maybe it was the way he looked at me like I wasn’t just another scroll on his screen. Maybe it was the way he talked — confident, cocky even, like he’d already decided I was his.

Love bombing? I didn’t know the term back then. I just knew it felt good.

He moved fast.

Messages turned to FaceTime.

FaceTime turned into “Come over.”

And “Come over” turned into full-blown obsession — or what I mistook for love.

He called me “his peace.” I remember how he’d say it like a confession.

“You’re not like the others. You calm me down.”

I wore those words like a badge.

I started skipping church just to spend Sundays in his bed. I stopped hanging out with my girlfriends, the ones who raised eyebrows and whispered, “Be careful, babe.”

But I didn’t want careful. I wanted him.

And he made me feel wanted.

He was reckless — but he made recklessness look romantic.

He’d pull me into his lap in crowded bars, whispering, “I don’t want anyone else.”

He’d hold my hand like a declaration. Post me. Show me off. Buy me little gifts I never asked for.

And I ate it up — every last bite.

Because I had never felt that kind of attention before.

He had this intoxicating mix of charm and danger.

One night, he got drunk and punched a guy at a party for “looking at me too long.”

The next morning, he brought me flowers and cried in my lap, saying, “I just love you so much, I can’t lose you.”

I didn’t see the red flags. I saw passion.

I saw a broken boy with a soft spot for me — and I wanted to be the one who healed him.

What a dangerous thing to believe.

Our love wasn’t built on anything real. It was adrenaline, validation, and fear of abandonment.

But back then, I swore it was fate.

The shift was subtle at first.

He started getting moodier when I didn’t answer right away.

Started comparing me to girls he used to be with.

“I could’ve had anyone. Just don’t give me a reason to regret choosing you.”

The weight of that line sat heavy on my chest for weeks.

And then came the alcohol — more of it, more often.

He’d disappear for hours, then show up outside my place slurring “I missed you.”

I let him in every time.

Because when he was sober, he was sweet. He held my face in his hands like I was fragile. He told me he saw a future. He even met my parents once, told my dad he was going to look after me.

Looking back now, I realize he never said love.

He said need.

There’s a big difference.

One night, everything cracked.

He left his phone unlocked while he went to the bathroom. I hadn’t planned on checking it, but something in me didn’t trust the way he’d been acting — the way he always flipped his phone screen down.

Curiosity became confirmation.

There were messages. So many.

Girls I didn’t know. Some I did.

Some before me.

Some during.

I sat there frozen, screen burning in my hand, heart thudding in my throat.

When he came back into the room, I asked, “Are you cheating on me?”

He didn’t even flinch.

He just laughed.

“That’s what this is about? You’re really gonna ruin the night over some old messages?”

He blamed me. Called me insecure. Said I was trying to “sabotage something good.”

I apologised.

For going through his phone.

Not once did he apologize for betraying me.

I slept next to him that night, facing the wall.

His hand still found my waist.

The truth is, I didn’t leave that night.

I stayed.

I stayed because I thought love meant fighting for someone. I stayed because I was afraid to start over. I stayed because I hoped he’d go back to who he was in the beginning.

But that version of him?

He was never real.

And yet…

Despite all the pain, the gut instincts I silenced, the friends I drifted from — I was still in love with the idea of him.

The man I thought he was.

I didn’t know it yet, but this wasn’t the end.

It was just the beginning of the unraveling — of me, of us, of everything I once believed about love.

Because sometimes the person you think is your soulmate is really your biggest lesson.