I spent years watching him. Years. From across crowded rooms, in shared classes, at mutual friends’ gatherings. He was always just there, a quiet hum in the background of my life, a constant ache in my chest that I never dared acknowledge out loud. He was the impossible dream, the one I filed away under ‘never gonna happen’ but still secretly held onto, a tiny, flickering candle in the darkest corners of my heart. Every laugh he shared, every casual glance in my direction, every polite conversation, I analyzed, replayed, dissected. Did he mean anything by that? Is there a flicker there? Always, the answer was no. Always, it was just me, adrift in a sea of unspoken longing.
Then came that night. It was late, everyone else had drifted home or found their corners in the warmth of a dying bonfire. We were the last two left on the porch, the air cool, the world quiet save for the distant chirp of crickets. He’d been unusually pensive all evening. I was just happy to be in his orbit, soaking in the silence. He turned to me, his eyes searching mine, and for the first time in all those years, I saw something different. Something intense. My breath hitched.
“I need to tell you something,” he started, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum. This is it. This is where he tells me he likes someone else. This is where my little candle finally goes out. I braced myself for the inevitable blow, for the pain of hearing him talk about another girl, another future that didn’t involve me.
A little boy lying in his bed | Source: Midjourney
But then, he took my hand. His touch was warm, firm, sending a jolt straight through me. He looked directly into my eyes, and the sincerity there, the raw vulnerability, nearly buckled my knees. “I’ve… I’ve had feelings for you for so long. Longer than I can even remember. I’ve tried to ignore them, to push them away, to tell myself it was just a crush. But it’s not. It’s real. It’s always been you.” He squeezed my hand. “I’m in love with you.”
The world tilted. The crickets went silent. The air hummed with an impossible electricity. I stared at him, my mind refusing to process the words, refusing to believe. No. This isn’t real. This can’t be happening. Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and unexpected. This wasn’t the pain I’d prepared for; this was an overwhelming, dizzying rush of pure, unadulterated joy. The impossible dream, the one I’d buried so deep, was suddenly standing right in front of me, speaking the words I’d never dared to whisper, even to myself. He reached out, cupped my face, and kissed me. It was everything I’d ever imagined, and more. A kiss that tasted of years of longing, of hope, of a future I never thought I’d have.
A baby girl sitting against the backdrop of Christmas decorations | Source: Unsplash
The next few months were a blur of happiness. Every day felt like a scene from a movie. Walks in the park, late-night talks that stretched into the early hours, stolen glances, intertwining hands. He was attentive, thoughtful, everything I’d ever dreamed of. He remembered small details about me, surprised me with little gestures, made me feel like the most cherished person on earth. I believed, with every fiber of my being, that this was it. This was my person. My soulmate. The one I was meant to spend forever with. We talked about a future, about silly hypotheticals, about blending our lives. Every moment with him felt like coming home. I was utterly, irrevocably, blissfully in love.
There were tiny, fleeting moments. A distant look in his eyes sometimes, a slight hesitation when I asked about his past, a guardedness I couldn’t quite place. But everyone has baggage, I told myself, and he’s finally opening up to me. I pushed those tiny whispers of doubt away, eager to lose myself in the overwhelming reality of a dream come true. How could anything be wrong when everything felt so right?
A smiling man standing in his son’s bedroom | Source: Midjourney
Then came the day I found it. He was away for the weekend, visiting family. I was tidying up our shared space, doing a load of laundry, when I noticed an old, dust-covered box tucked away at the very back of his closet, behind a stack of rarely-worn sweaters. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. Just old college memorabilia, probably, I thought, a pang of curiosity stirring. I hesitated for a moment, then decided a quick peek wouldn’t hurt. It was just an old box.
Inside, beneath a few faded photos and a broken watch, was a small, worn leather-bound journal. It wasn’t a diary, not exactly. It was more like… a collection. I flipped through the pages. Most were filled with philosophical musings, quotes, poetry. Harmless. Interesting, even. And then I saw it. Tucked neatly into the middle, a pressed, dried rose. And underneath it, a handwritten letter.
My heart gave a painful lurch. The handwriting was unmistakable. His. My eyes skimmed the first line, then the second. It was addressed to someone else. A name I didn’t recognize. And then the words hit me, like a physical blow. “I need to tell you something… I’ve had feelings for you for so long. Longer than I can even remember. I’ve tried to ignore them, to push them away, to tell myself it was just a crush. But it’s not. It’s real. It’s always been you.” Every single word. Identical. The exact, devastatingly beautiful confession he had made to me that night on the porch.
A stack of pancakes and syrup on a table | Source: Midjourney
My hands began to tremble so violently I almost dropped the journal. No. NO. This couldn’t be. This had to be a coincidence. A first draft, maybe. A practice run. But then I saw the date. Five years ago. Five years before he’d spoken those same words to me. My stomach dropped into a void. I frantically flipped through the journal. There were other letters. More roses. Different names. Each one a carbon copy of the last, each one a perfect, heartfelt declaration of “true feelings.” There was even a section outlining “optimal delivery,” with notes on “eye contact intensity” and “vulnerability cues.”
It wasn’t a confession of love. It was a script. My entire, cherished, impossible dream moment, the very foundation of our relationship, was a meticulously crafted performance. The trembling hand, the searching eyes, the raw vulnerability – it was all rehearsed. Perfected. Over and over again. My heart, my soul, my deepest desires, had been reduced to an audience for his practiced art.
The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. I fell to the floor, the journal clattering beside me. Every memory, every stolen glance, every intimate moment, every future we’d planned, replayed in my mind, twisted and corrupted. The sincerity I’d seen in his eyes that night? A lie. The love I’d felt from him? A manipulation. I wasn’t his soulmate. I wasn’t even special. I was just the latest mark. Another recipient of his perfected performance. Another broken heart on his long, invisible list.
An older woman sitting at a table | Source: Midjourney
The pain was unlike anything I had ever known. It wasn’t just heartbreak; it was a complete shattering of reality. I felt utterly, completely foolish. Naive. Used. Every “I love you” he’d ever whispered, every tender touch, every reassuring embrace, now echoed as a cruel, calculating deceit. He didn’t reveal his true feelings to me that night. He revealed his true skill at deception. And I, like so many others before me, had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. I still see his face in my dreams sometimes, whispering those perfect, empty words. And I wake up screaming.
