Chapter 9 – The Men After Him

They weren’t him.

None of them were.

And that’s what made it both easier and harder.

The first guy I met after him was kind. Soft-spoken. The type of man who asked if I got home safe. He brought me coffee the way I liked it and always let me choose the music in his car.

And yet, I found myself waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Every time he said something sweet, I questioned it.

Every time he didn’t reply for an hour, my stomach tightened.

Every time he looked at me with soft eyes, I looked away — afraid of what he might see.

Because I wasn’t used to softness.

I was used to being hyperaware.

To decoding silence.

To flinching at affection that came with conditions.

I realised, for the first time, how deep the damage went.

The second guy was the rebound I didn’t plan.

He was confident, funny, loud — the kind of person who could light up a whole room and drain it at the same time. He made me feel beautiful, desirable, alive again.

But it was shallow.

We didn’t talk about real things.

We didn’t connect past the surface.

He liked the idea of me.

I liked the distraction of him.

It ended as quickly as it started — a spark that burned out the moment I stopped trying to perform.

And still… I didn’t regret it.

Because even in the emptiness, I was learning.

The third one stayed a little longer.

He asked questions about my past, and I gave him pieces — carefully curated versions of the truth. He knew I’d been hurt. He didn’t know how badly.

He told me I had sad eyes.

I laughed, but he wasn’t wrong.

He noticed the way I hesitated when he touched me.

The way I pulled back when things got too emotionally intimate.

“You’re here,” he said once, “but you’re not letting me see all of you.”

And I knew then: I wasn’t ready.

But none of them broke me.

None of them tried to possess me.

None of them made me feel small.

And for that, I was grateful.

Because even though they weren’t “the one,” they showed me what it was like to be treated with care. With respect. Without games.

And that… was healing in its own way.

I stopped looking for fireworks.

I stopped needing someone to make my heart race with anxiety and call it love.

I started looking for safety.

Softness.

Something real.

Not perfection — just presence.

Someone who could sit in silence with me and not make it awkward.

Someone who could see my scars and not try to fix me — just hold space for them.

I still yearned for companionship.

Of course I did.

I missed being held.

I missed sharing moments with someone.

I missed inside jokes, soft kisses, knowing glances across the room.

But I no longer missed him.

And that’s how I knew I had truly moved on.

The love I was looking for no longer came with chaos.

It came in little moments — sitting alone at a restaurant and not feeling embarrassed. Laughing with friends and not checking my phone every five minutes. Waking up without a pit in my stomach.

It came in trusting myself again.

In choosing not to go back — not even when I was lonely, not even when I missed the comfort of being wanted.

Because I finally understood:

Being alone is hard. But being with the wrong person is harder.

So I waited.

Not with desperation — but with intention.

I believed now that the right kind of love wouldn’t need to be chased, convinced, or earned through suffering.

It would arrive and feel like breathing.

And until then, I was willing to wait.

To grow.

To build a life I loved enough that someone else’s presence would feel like a bonus — not a necessity.

I was no longer looking to be rescued.

I was learning how to stand fully in my own light.

The men after him weren’t soulmates.

But they were lessons.

Bridges.

Mirrors.

And they reminded me of what I’d forgotten in that relationship:

I am worthy.

I am whole.

I am becoming.

And one day, someone will see all of that —

and stay.

Not to fix me.

But to walk beside me.