The days stretched into months, and though time was meant to heal, it felt as though my mind was unraveling. My heartbreak had shattered something deep within me, leaving behind an emptiness I could not name.

To escape the torment of my thoughts, I surrounded myself with people. Friends—both men and women—became my refuge. They made me laugh, distracted me from the pain my aunt and uncle inflicted upon me daily. But something inside me had changed.

The oath I made—to never fall for a man first—became something more. I found myself drawn to women in ways I had never felt before. Their touch, their scent, the softness of their voices—it fascinated me, consumed me. I imagined their lips on mine, their skin against my skin. I craved their intimacy in a way that confused me, yet felt so natural.

Was this who I had always been? Or was this just another cruel trick love was playing on me?

But I did not question it. Instead, I drowned myself in the company of friends, hoping to bury my past beneath the noise of new experiences.

Making friends made me feel alive again. I laughed more, talked more, and for the first time in a long while, I felt like I belonged.

But my heart had not learned its lesson.

I trusted too much, gave too much, loved too much. I stole money from my aunt's shop just to buy gifts for my friends—clothes, shoes, phones—anything to make them happy, to make them stay.

There was one friend, a boy with a face carved by angels and a voice that melted me. I felt something different for him, something I did not want to name. He looked at me in a way that made my skin tingle, his gaze lingering on my body, his eyes traveling over my curves, my lips, my breasts.

But when his hands brushed against my skin, I felt nothing.

Still, I gave him everything. I bought him a phone when he cried for one. I made sure he had whatever he needed. And through him, I gained more friends—his siblings, his circle. They welcomed me, made me feel wanted.

I did not realize I was only useful to them as long as my pockets remained full.

The signs were there, but I refused to see them.

The small avoidances. The unanswered calls. The way they laughed in hushed tones when I approached. The way they whispered when they thought I couldn't hear.

Then one day, my aunt had enough.

She yelled, she cursed, she locked me inside the house. "These people are not your friends!" she screamed. "You are a fool to believe they care about you!"

But I refused to listen. I refused to believe that the only happiness I had found was another lie.

So I defied her, sneaking out whenever I could, still clinging to the friendships that were slipping through my fingers.

Until a stranger—a girl with kind eyes and a gentle voice—stopped me on the road one afternoon.

"How long have you been friends with them?" she asked.

Her question confused me. "Why?"

She hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. Then she said, "Because they're using you. They laugh at you behind your back. They say you steal from your aunt just to buy them things. They call you a housemaid."

My breath caught in my throat. The world around me blurred.

I stumbled, my knees giving way beneath me, and for the second time in my life, I wept like a child abandoned in the dark.

"Why me?" I cried. "Why does love always fail me? Why does my trust always end in betrayal?"

The girl knelt beside me, her arms wrapping around my trembling body. "Because you are too kind," she whispered. "And they were never worthy of your kindness."

And just like that, the illusion shattered.

The girl who had seen my pain took me home, back to the place that had never felt like home.

I lay on my bed that night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if love would ever stop punishing me.

I had given my heart away to a man who used me. I had given my loyalty to friends who betrayed me. And in between, I had discovered a part of myself I did not understand.

Love had never brought me peace. Only pain. Only sorrow.

And yet, in the midst of my suffering, I realized something.

I had been chasing happiness all my life, but happiness had never been kind to me. It had always come with a price, with deception, with heartbreak.

It had been wicked.

And so, as I closed my eyes that night, I whispered to myself:

"I will no longer chase love. If love wants me, it will have to find me first."