I’ve always been the kind of woman who believed in love, fairy tale love. But after a string of failed relationships throughout my twenties and into my thirties, I found myself wondering if I’d ever get that storybook ending. At 35, I was beginning to come to terms with the fact that I might be destined for a different path. That was until I met John.
John is my friend’s brother, a handsome man with a charming smile and an impressive job as an executive at a large firm. The moment I laid eyes on him at a barbeque, it was like a light bulb went off. He was everything I thought I wanted, confident, witty, and successful. Little did I know that the connection I felt was a one-way street.
At first, I brushed off my feelings. After all, I was the queen of unrequited love. But the more I saw him, the deeper I fell into my fantasy world. I started weaving elaborate daydreams where John and I were the perfect couple. I envisioned him picking me up after work, before we headed out to a cozy dinner. In my mind, we shared everything from late-night conversations to weekend getaways. I lived for these moments, constructing our “relationship” in vivid detail, even if it existed solely in my head.
Two years flew by in this surreal haze. I created scenarios that played out like scenes from a rom-com. I could practically feel the warmth of his hand in mine as we strolled through the park. John consumed my thoughts and was with me every minute of every day. Every lunch break, every gym session, my mind drifted back to him. I thought about what our future would look like, how he’d propose, and the family we’d have together.
Then came the fateful day at the Christmas markets. I was browsing through the stalls, caught up in the vibrant atmosphere, when I spotted him. My heart skipped a beat. But as I approached, the world around me slowed. There he was, holding hands with a stunning woman. A wave of nausea washed over me as reality crashed in. He smiled at me, genuine and warm, as if we were old friends. “Hey! I’m getting married in two months!” he announced casually, his fiancée beaming by his side.
I felt the ground beneath me shift. The facade I’d built crumbled into dust. I forced a smile and managed a weak “Congratulations,” but inside, I was screaming. The two years of fantasy and longing exploded into anger, sadness, betrayal. How could I mourn someone who had never been mine?
The aftermath was a rollercoaster ride I never signed up for. I went through every stage of grief as if John had really been a part of my life. I cried, yelled, and buried myself in self-doubt. “What was wrong with me?” became a mantra I repeated daily. I tried to distract myself with a few rebound one-night stands, seeking solace in fleeting connections, only to find they left me emptier than before.
My friends didn’t know, how could I tell them I’d been having an imaginary relationship with someone they all know. I felt ridiculous for mourning a relationship that had only existed in my imagination. Yet, there I was, heartbroken over a man I’d never even shared a real conversation with.
Over time, I began to pick up the pieces. I realized that the love I felt for John wasn’t about him; it was about my longing for connection and the fear of being alone. I had built a fantasy to protect myself from the vulnerabilities of real relationships, but in doing so, I had also isolated myself.
As the months passed, I slowly found clarity. I learned to embrace the rawness of my feelings instead of running from them. I started to reconnect with the parts of myself I had neglected, focusing on my passions and friendships. The illusion of John faded into a lesson about self-love and the importance of authenticity in relationships.
I may have lost my fantasy, but in the process, I found a deeper understanding of what it means to truly connect with someone. Love doesn’t always fit the fairy tale mould, and that’s okay. I’m learning to appreciate the messy, beautiful journey of life, one day at a time.
I’m also checking out the apps that promise an attentive AI boyfriend !