At nineteen, I was naïve, untouched by love, and desperate for warmth in a home that never felt like one. My aunt, cold and indifferent, barely acknowledged my existence. I craved affection, someone who would look at me and see more than just another girl.
Then, he came into my life.
Tall, handsome, with a smile that could melt ice—he was everything I had ever imagined in my daydreams. I named him my crush, though in my heart, I already knew it was more than that. When I noticed him stealing glances at me, my world shifted. The way he smiled, the way he spoke—everything about him made my heart race.
"Oh! He who has waited so long is deeply falling for me," I whispered to myself, a foolish grin plastered on my face.
And then, it happened. We got together. His eyes held mine, and I felt an unfamiliar shyness creeping in. He was so breathtaking, and somehow, he had chosen me.
We became inseparable. Long talks, secret meetings, stolen laughter—I felt like the luckiest girl alive. He was my joy, my peace, my gift.
"Do you know how many girls would die to have him?" I would tell myself. Yet, here he was, with me.
I ignored the warning signs—the way he flirted too easily, the way other girls looked at him. I was too blinded by love to see the truth lurking in the shadows.
One evening, he sent me a message, his words heavy with distress.
"Babe, I lost $20. I don't know what to do."
My heart ached for him. Without hesitation, I promised to help.
We met the next day, and as I handed him the money, he kissed me—softly, deeply—his eyes locking onto mine. There was something in his smile that should have alarmed me, but love had made me blind.
I returned home feeling warm, unaware that the storm was just beginning.
Days passed. Then weeks. My calls went unanswered. My messages left on read.
Something felt wrong, but I convinced myself he was just busy. Then came the whispers.
At church one Sunday morning, two young girls giggled behind me.
"Isn't this the girl who gave a guy $20?" one whispered.
"Yes! And he even said she stole it from her aunt," the other replied, laughing.
My heart stopped. My breath caught in my throat.
I ran out of the church, my chest heaving, my world crashing.
Months later, fate brought us face to face again. He was visiting my neighbor. I held my breath, waiting for a sign that he regretted what he did.
But when his friend whispered, "Isn't this your lover?" his response shattered me.
"Which motherfucking lover?" he spat, his voice laced with disgust.
I stood frozen, my heart pounding, my tears threatening to spill. He had discarded me like I was nothing.
I ran home, my sobs uncontrollable. Why me? What did I do to deserve this?
Days later, I collapsed under the weight of my pain. The whispers, the betrayal, the heartbreak—it consumed me. My body gave in, and I was rushed to the hospital.
Five days on drips. Eight days of agony.
My aunt barely visited. I lay there, abandoned, unwanted, and utterly broken.
When I was finally discharged, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the girl I no longer recognized.
Tears streamed down my face as I made a solemn vow.
"Never again will I fall in love first. "
I once believed love was the greatest joy. But I learned that love, when given to the wrong person, is a wicked thing—capable of breaking even the strongest hearts.
I walked away from my past, carrying my scars as a reminder.
Love would come again. But this time, it would find me first.