I Miss Being Utterly Lost in the Intoxication of Love

Once, I believed I had found it. I looked at him and thought myself the luckiest woman alive. What we shared felt rare, almost sacred — as though we’d stumbled upon something people spend lifetimes searching for.

I was certain we had found it in one another.

Perhaps my first mistake was placing him upon a pedestal. From such heights, he could no longer see me as an equal. His ego swelled until he believed my devotion was guaranteed, that he could treat me however he pleased and still have me waiting. And if I left? Surely there would be countless others eager to take my place.

Seven months of silence have passed. Seven months of no contact, no peeking at social media, no searching for answers. I have no idea whether the life he imagined for himself ever came to be.

What remains is an immense emptiness.

Not the sharp agony of heartbreak, but a hollow ache. A longing for something I can no longer touch. I struggle to find myself in the quiet. I struggle to find joy in ordinary days. Sometimes it feels as though the color has drained from the world, leaving everything muted and distant.

And yet, I still dream of those unhurried afternoons.

Of being wrapped safely in someone’s arms. Of lingering kisses that ask nothing and promise everything. Of feeling chosen. Cherished. Loved.

I miss surrendering to something greater than myself. To love itself. That miraculous force capable of transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary. The thing I once believed was freely given, only to learn how often it is conditional, negotiated, earned, and withheld.

Perhaps that is what I mourn most.

Not him.

But the woman who believed in magic. The woman who woke each morning convinced she had been touched by something rare and beautiful. The woman who gladly lost herself in the sweetness of it all.

To taste that honey once more, even knowing how quickly it spoils upon the lips.

What I wouldn’t give to believe in it again.

…

Oh, lady, the NRE-fueled lust and excitement of an affair is unparalleled. It’s like shaking a Coke can — open at your own risk.

And when the fever dream is over, it’s over.

One Redditor responded, “I thought I had that once. Too bad it was a house of cards. I can’t look back on those memories with warmth, knowing it was all a charade. I am left feeling used, empty, angry, and full of regret. I am not willing to romanticize the love bombing, future faking, and sheer fantasy. I was naive with rose colored glasses.”

Well, ain’t that the bitter truth?

Another person wrote, “I suppose the solace you can find is that the woman who is capable of that kind of love is you. And the heartbreak does not rob you of the ability to love fully and unconditionally. That woman is still there. Maybe still partially buried under the heartache, but she will love again. Believe in her.”

Yep. Time and distance work their power.

Eventually, she will find her magic, once again. Maybe with a new lover or within herself.

Then she will become the woman who wakes each morning convinced she was touched by something rare and beautiful.

Herself.

…

Used by permission from a Reddit poster who wishes to stay anonymous.