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Dear T,

To be honest, it’s been hard moving on from you. And that’s not from lack of trying, believe me I’ve been trying, it’s just been difficult.

You don’t know this but you were the first guy I started seeing after I took myself out of the dating realm due to some really traumatic events that occurred with the last guy I was seeing before you. Maybe you’ll never know this. Or know that you were the first man I let in since then. And to be quite honest, you might be the last.

I couldn’t think about dating for years. I didn’t want to let anybody into my life at all – through the barbed-wire gates or let down my walls. Still, to this day, I struggle with the concept of physical intimacy. I swore myself off the dating apps because nothing good has ever come from them – in my life, it’s only brought me pain and unnecessary bouts of drama and heartache.

And then stupidly, when I decided I was moving to London in 2024, I thought I’d redownload Hinge in an effort to connect with the people before I moved over…which is where I came across you.

And I liked you – you were hot and charming and like you said, “we chat easy”. Of course, from the start I couldn’t really be serious about you because it wasn’t concrete or set in stone that I would be moving to London – that wouldn’t come until the new year. I also wasn’t sure if dating was even something I wanted to entertain, given how traumatized I still was from the last time I let a man into my life. I didn’t place any expectations on you – I just let things be. Maybe that’s how I should’ve left it.

But we kept in touch from August 2023 until the very evening I landed here in March 2024. And in those months, flirting ensued and many messages and voice notes were exchanged. Ideas of travelling around Europe were tossed ever so casually. Even in my final weeks of living in Toronto, the idea of the shit we’d get up to when I landed in London seemed less like ideas and more like probable plans – places you wanted to show me, things you wanted to do with me.

One can only think about what exactly that might mean to the other person when you stay in contact (not always consistently, but a decent amount) for almost a whole year, right? I wondered about what this meant for you, but I didn’t want to jump the gun and ask because in the same breath, I wasn’t fully sure what this meant for me.

But when I got settled in my flat and sat on my couch, eating the first legit meal I’d had in 12 hours from travelling, I stared at my phone and contemplated messaging you. Not sure what was going to come of it, I told myself “fuck it, send the stupid message”.

You responded. You gave me your number. We texted back and forth. More flirting ensued. You eventually asked me out on a date. We went out and had fun. Made plans for the next…and the rest is history.

I realize now that things happened pretty quickly between us…so maybe I was the one who got in over their head about us (about as quickly as we were making plans to see each other again). Our first 3 dates happened in 2 weeks – the 2nd was when we kissed for the first time (and second, and third, and fourth, and fifth…probably a sixth and yes, I’m still guilty for thinking about that night in particular). The 3rd was the first time I’d ever invited anybody I was seeing in a romantic capacity into my personal space: to cook for them, to share my bed, to meet my cat, to get that close to me.

I had no reason to believe that your heart wasn’t in the right place, that you didn’t have good intentions, or that you wouldn’t show me respect, decency, or kindness during the process of getting to know each other whether we worked out or not.

I quickly grew to really like the things you’d do whenever we were in each other’s company – your forehead kisses (that always seemed so personal and protective), every touch, every hug, every kiss, and every look you ever gave me.

As things progressed and we continued to connect, obviously my feelings grew. You felt like an old friend. You felt safe. In some ways, you felt like hope. A bit naive of me to think that maybe things would finally work in my favour with a boy I’d matched with on a dating app, talked to on and off for months, and then would later meet and hit it off. Of course, I was hoping we would work. Crazy of me to think that we actually would, but remained hopeful.

But then I didn’t see you for a few months, and it dropped me into a limbo of confusion. We stayed in contact like how we did when we lived on two separate continents. The texts less consistent which I made excuses for. The flirting continued. The reassurance that we’d see each other again came.

It was during this time, on two separate occasions, that I gave you outs to quit while we were ahead and leave things where they were. It was clear you were busy, you didn’t have time to see me, and I didn’t want to be the fool waiting around for the window of time that would. To my surprise, you didn’t take them and assured me we’d meet again. So again, I remained hopeful.

Then magically, around my birthday, we met again. I’ll never fully know if it was because you were free that week and actually wanted to see me, or you felt bad for me because it was my birthday week and being the new kid on the block, I didn’t have a lot planned. But when we met up again, it felt like no time had passed at all – we fell right back into it.

After that, I didn’t really have a reason to believe I wouldn’t be seeing you again. That was until 3 weeks came and went and I hadn’t heard from you. I made more excuses for you. Wrote it off that you were busy and that I’d once been in your shoes – I was the exact same. Then started to settle into the reality that you were ghosting me. I added you to the graveyard. It was the beginning of the end.

Magically you reappeared but with nothing promising. And then in a moment of vulnerability, I told you how I genuinely felt about you. How much I liked you, how I wanted you. In hindsight, looking back, I was coming from a slightly delusional perspective. But then you texted back, days later, telling me you heard me, and that you liked me too (obviously), but that we were at different stages.

I didn’t know how to interpret that at first. What did that mean? Different stages of what? I gave it a day. Tried to think of what to respond with. I struggled to find the words but eventually, they found me.

I tried to handle it as delicately, maturely, and respectfully as I could. I acknowledged your side. I even said you were right (as I needed to be pushed back into realism for a moment). But in valuing our connection and not wanting to just throw in the towel, I suggested we continue to see where we go without any pressure if that was something you were open to.

I guess you weren’t. Because I didn’t hear from you again.

Of course, that hurt. It solidified that you didn’t like me as much as I liked you. And that’s okay, things don’t always work out the way you hope it would.

But what stung the most was the silence – your silence. It was silence that instantly invalidated my feelings. Silence that told me that above all, you genuinely could give two fucks.

And I thought maybe after how long we’d been connected, the mature nature you had about you, and the respect that we had for each other, you would’ve told me how you were feeling instead of leaving your silence to do it for you.

But maybe I was thinking too highly of you. My bad, my fault.

I’ve learned my lesson.

I confess there was a version of me that believed in a fairytale of sorts and that things would just make sense. Was I being completely wise? No. Was I being realistic? Not always. Did I let myself be a bit delusional? Guilty. But like I always do, I keep an open-mind and like to think the best of every unfamiliar, new situation. You were no exception.

It makes me sad it ended like this. And it makes me feel worse that I feel like this. That I now have to give myself the closure that selfishly, I feel like you owed me. Above all, I wanted to understand your perspective. Hear your why. I don’t know if I ever would’ve been able to change your mind, but at least I would’ve understood your side or at least tried to.

Moving on has been a real battle because on some days, I miss you. And I feel immensely stupid and idiotic that I do. I torment myself by reading old texts or DMs sometimes and I ask myself: “What happened, El? How did we get here?” I blame myself. I take accountability on for the both of us.

Getting over you is a marathon clearly, not a sprint. And I’m making the effort, this process is just painfully slow. I’ve always hated this part because it’s the part that hurts the most.

I liked you. I wanted you. That I made clear. And who knows, maybe there was a version of you that truly liked and wanted me too. I admired you because among many things, you seemed like you’d  always be honest and transparent with me, even if it was something I didn’t want to hear, but I couldn’t have been more wrong about that.

I wanted you to prove me wrong. After all, you once told me you liked a challenge.

But I’ll never know anyway, especially since you’ll never read this. Like this chapter will never get the closing it deserves, but I’ll try my best to do it on my own.

—El