Gracie Watkins
When I was in eighth grade, I made a checklist of traits I wanted in my future boyfriend. It was a rather short list, which isn’t surprising, considering that my only semblance of love at that point came from listening to Taylor Swift breakup songs. Eight years and many broken hearts later, I met someone who seemed to embody everything on that long-forgotten list. Cute? Check. Funny? Check. Smart? Book-wise, check. Treats me with actual respect? Check. Even when I probably don’t deserve it? Check, check, check. And yet.
I knew my now ex-boyfriend for years. We were best friends, so it felt right in a way no other romantic relationship had before in my life. With my previous boyfriends and flings, it took time to get to know someone and even longer for me to open up emotionally. With him, it felt easy. I had already laid the foundation to build the perfect relationship.
And, to the naked eye, it was. He made time for me when I couldn’t, texted me back instantaneously when I waited hours, and liked me in a way that nobody else had before. It was the kind of like that might be mistaken for love—seeing all of my broken, unsightly parts and rough edges, yet embracing me anyway.
For a few weeks, I was blinded by rose-colored glasses. Then, just as quickly as the relationship began, the voice crept in. Didn’t it know how hard it was to find someone who seems to complement you? Didn’t it see my friends around me struggling to find someone as kind as I had? I tried to escort the voice out of my head. And yet.
There was a distinct moment when everything changed. I am not sure how to describe it exactly. It was as if I was underwater for weeks, and I took that first breath of crisp air, sputtering and gasping at the surface. For no apparent reason, my comforting world became so bright. I felt so hyper-aware of my heart for the first time. Why was it aching like it was missing something?
At first, I assumed it was a rebellion against commitment. I always had this part of me that felt unfettered, a deep-rooted desire to experience the world on my own, feeling the highs and lows. This urge is heightened by my position as a senior. This is my last year to be free before the chains of adulthood.
Being with my ex quieted this feeling for a little while. His presence was like a stitch over an open wound that ached for freedom, but now the stitch broke, and my cut was exposed to air, desire running like blood down my skin. Once I allowed the thoughts in, I couldn’t ignore them. And yet.
Was I just supposed to throw away someone who checked my childhood boxes with no guarantee that it would ever return, just because I had these thoughts? What if, down the road, when I felt satisfied with my experiences and was finally ready to commit, nobody was there?
In my empty apartment, I slide on my headphones and open my phone to Spotify, pressing the song I’ve been replaying for days, “Scared of my Guitar” by Olivia Rodrigo.
What if I never find anything better, the thought always creeps in my mindSo, we’ll stay together because how could I ever trade something that’s good for what’s right?
Her words echo my exact thoughts, giving me the confidence to write this now. I’ve been obsessing, wondering what’s wrong with me. There was nothing outwardly wrong with him; he was a good guy in all the right ways.
In Olivia Rodrigo’s words, it wasn’t right. Love isn’t easy, and emotions aren’t either. Society often reminds us that a “good man is hard to find.” It forgets to tell us that these men might be good and solid on their own, but as a couple, the equation just doesn’t add up.
And yet, that’s okay. It is okay to wait. It is okay if someone checks all the superficial boxes but not your emotions. It’s all completely and justifiably okay.
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