I have always adored painting dates. My heart warms from the intimacy of sharing a color palette, playfully competing whose artwork is prettier, and creating a treasure unique for the two of us.
“This means so much to me,” he said, looking at me as if his stomach was full of fluttering butterflies. I could only offer a fleeting glance for my butterflies remained asleep.
That was my first painting date and though I loved the idea, I knew no magic would come from it. I want it to mean something but if someone were to ask if I had already been on a painting date, I would probably say, “No, not yet” from my heart’s instinct.
“I’ll keep these paintings. Let’s finish them on our next date, okay?”
But there would be no next time. I can sense he is getting ready to profess his love, but I just hope he can realize that I am getting ready to run. Again. Like I always do.
For every boy I talk to, there would always be wind breezing through our hair—through his as he falls for me, and through mine as I run away.
I already met the love of my life. He was the exact man I dreamed of. He is charming, smart, talented, and creative. He studies harder than I do. Yet, in those moments, I often find myself simply watching him, amazed by his dedication. Whether leading the student council or dancing on stage, he gives nothing less than his best.
Before he courted me, he asked for my parents’ permission first. He told them about his pure intentions and how he loved me dearly. He then made plans with my best friend to make sure he got every detail right.
He was both thoughtful and spontaneous, always making sure I felt loved. When I told him my love language was words of affirmation, he wrote me love letters after every date. He designed custom movie tickets for our film nights, choosing movies I had only casually mentioned.
Every year, he asked me to be his valentine—once, through presentation slides filled with pictures of our little moments together. He planned each date so carefully that all I had to do was show up, and no matter how I did, he would tell me I was beautiful. He matched my outfits, held my hand like I was royalty whenever we walked down a staircase and made me laugh every chance he got.
On our first anniversary, he gave me a huge box that contained a bouquet in shades of orange which is the color I love most, stickers of my favorite childhood cartoon, a love letter, and my favorite chocolates. He then proceeded to hand me a penguin stuffed toy I told him before that I found cute.
He supported me through the darkest points of my life. No matter what changed, he always remained my sunshine and my lifeline.
We cherished each other. We were certain that it was us or no one else. He showed me love beyond what I knew it could be.
If soulmates were real, we would have been each other’s. You would have thought that we would last a lifetime.
Despite that, I lost the love of my life.
When I broke up with him, he told me that I was breaking his heart but that he understood me. Instead of being angry or arguing that it was unfair, he chose to put me first. Again. Like always.
I have heard countless times that loving someone is challenging but will feel effortless if you are with the right person. But that perspective seems to oversimplify the commitment required to embrace someone as part of your life. I argue love is an equation of who you are and what your life is at the moment. Love can be the center of your world, but it does not mean that love is unswayed by everything else in it.
Unfortunately, love has a habit of greeting you at the wrong moments in your life.
Love can come into our lives when we are experiencing financial difficulties or feeling overwhelmed by our responsibilities. Sometimes love arrives when people are still grappling with their traumas. After all, it is easier to be romantic when you have the means; and easier to be in love when you are not fighting invisible battles.
Maybe some flee because they cannot afford the maintenance of love: dates, gifts, family, or a stable and secure life. Maybe some escape because they are appalled by the thought of someone carrying their emotional baggage with them. Maybe some walk away to make space for what could be better.
He saw me as his future bride, and I wanted that too—so badly. But after everything I have been through, with grief and doubt weighing on me, I needed to stand on my own. I am young, and I want a part of my life that is mine alone. He was perfect, but the world doesn’t pause for love, and the idea of “I would do anything for you” is not always enough.
Then I proceeded to run away from those who came after him.
I hope love had a schedule so it could have found us at a different time; so he could have met a better and more committed version of myself. Ironic as it is, although we run away, we make space for it.
Even the most career-oriented and financially stuck person looks out for love. Buried underneath all the responsibilities and aspirations is a hope that there is warmth and laughter at home after an exhausting day. Even those fearful of commitment wait for someone deserving of a leap of faith.
I am striving to heal, hoping that when love finds us again, I will finally be ready to stay. Even those whose fates seemed misaligned hope their journeys are not parallel, and that there is a point in the future for them to meet again.
Fortunately, love has a habit of returning at the perfect time.
So we make space for the love whose journey is not linear, for the love that was sacrificed, for the love that came at the wrong time, for the love lost but we keep looking for, and for the love that is yet to find its way back. Someday, I will stop running away and learn to walk back toward love.
Someday, with all my steps certain and all my butterflies awake, I will not run but walk slowly at a steady pace—back to the love we once had.
