Addicted to Potential

If I’m being honest, I kept going back because a part of me hoped he’d become who I needed. I told myself it was just timing or communication. But the truth is that I was addicted to potential; to the person he could have been. It didn’t happen all at once, there were pauses, silences, warm moments that made me forget the cold ones. And each time we departed, I left the door cracked open, just in case. Because something in me believed he’d walk right through it one day with the right words, the right love, the right version of himself.

We met at a time when I still measured love by effort. The end of high school was near, I was hopeful. I had just turned 16, brainstorming what to do after I graduate. He wasn’t what I expected; not at all. He was quiet yet witty but the kind of person that doesn’t need to say much to establish his presence. We didn’t meet in a grand way either, we met online through a friend. But something about him felt familiar, like we were tailored for each other at that specific time.

We talked like we knew each other forever. We shared same ideologies, loved the same shows and shared jokes all the time. Did I mention he was insanely cute? Long messages turned into voice messages and soon enough I found myself waiting for his name to pop up on my phone. There was one night, we were watching a movie he was streaming and he said to me, “You’re a gentle flower, I must protect you.”. I replayed that for days. I thought in that moment, maybe this is real.

The day that I waited for, he asked me to be his girlfriend. I loved the idea of it, I was convinced I loved him; the ingredients were there for the recipe, so yes. Given our circumstance being long distance, I considered him well and I considered our relationship real but real to the point I would acknkowrdge it in my real life? Maybe…maybe not. Nevertheless, I found safe haven with him. I remember every call, every conversation, every gift, every sweet word he muttered to me. They say go where you are appreciated and I felt fulfilled, I felt happy all the days. He created a force field amidst the mayhem.

I wanted to believe love could overcome anything. But I was young, Pentecostal and torn. He was Catholic, gentle, faithful but different. I noticed, unsure of what I do with this mixture. He noticed, not caring about the repercussions. The questions came, “Is he truly saved?” “What do Catholics even believe?”. I didn’t have any answers, only guilt but I called it boundaries. So I told him it was not the right time, maybe we are better off being friends. Iff we are dating, we should be equally yoked and then we proceed. But the truth is, I did not know what to do with a love that felt right and wrong at the same time. This is where the infamous game of tug and war started.

“Don’t ever say bye, bunny, I don’t like to hear that,” he’d always tell me when I bid farewells. This is what made this farewell much more deeper than it seemed. I wished him well, he wished the same. I may not have wanted that for myself but for my sake and his sake, it must be done. I remember him begging to hold on, reassuring me that we would figure things out. We could only ignore things for so long but we must face the music eventually, right? His last I love you glided off his tongue with ease and slithered around my heart. We had to say goodbye. I was convinced we must move on.

The first time we said goodbye was January 13th, 2023. I remember the date because it felt final like I had finally chosen my convictions over my confusion. We had gone back and forth for months, skimming the edge of commitment but never quite falling in. The tension between us wasn’t always loud, but it was constant. I was Pentecostal. He was Catholic. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. My family side-eyed the very idea of me dating a Catholic, as did his family. I told myself we couldn’t work because our beliefs didn’t align, but I think part of me was just afraid of what love might cost me. So I let him go. But he never really stayed gone.

He came back months later, soft-spoken, repentant, a little more charming than before. “I’ve been praying about you,” he’d say. “You’re still in my heart, let’s try again please.” And because I was still figuring out what love was supposed to look like, I listened. But I didn’t stay. Not yet. I kept saying no. Again and again. Not because I didn’t feel something but because I felt too much and didn’t know what to do with it. And so the cycle continued. Every few months, like clockwork, he’d return. Each time more refined. More poetic. More “godly.” I’d cry. I’d pray. I’d doubt myself. But I’d always close the door again. Until I didn’t.

March 2025, he returned and I wasn’t the same girl who kept shutting the door. I had just turned 19. I was tired of running from feelings I had already tried to bury. My faith had matured, not hardened. I didn’t love less but I loved more cautiously. And when his name appeared on my screen again, something inside me softened instead of recoiling.

This time, he didn’t just come with nostalgia, he came with intention. He told me he missed me. That without me, everything was quieter, duller. That I was, in his words, “true love personified.” He spoke of God like he had met Him for real. He sent me Bible verses, talked about prayer, spoke of repentance and purpose and growth. And I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe we had grown up into the versions of ourselves that could finally make this work.

I don’t remember the exact moment I said yes. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. A small surrender. A letting go of years of fear and resistance. After everything after the spiritual tension, the family pressure, the unspoken doubts I chose him. I let him hold my heart, believing that this time, it would be safe.

We were finally together, and part of me wanted to believe the wait was worth it. He spoke differently this time. Slower, gentler. His messages were layered with purpose, his voice steadier than before. We prayed together and held long talks about God and discipline and staying in the Word. I saw someone who wanted better, who was actively trying. We prayed together, read the Bible, spoke about purpose and calling. I would journal after and pray in my alone time, asking God to shape him into the man who could lead our home. I asked for his full surrender, that he wouldn’t be a slave to sin or carried by fleshly desires, but a man convicted and obedient to the Word. I remember thinking maybe this is what I had been waiting on all along I felt hopeful and guarded at the same time, like I had one foot in the door and the other still waiting to see if it was safe to enter.

There were a few things I noticed in him that made me uneasy, but I didn’t judge. I brought it to God and I prayed with him too. I still felt a little left out sometimes when he spoke about his plans and future, because he would mention me in them, he was intentional but my eyes were blinded to it; it was strange. There was this feeling that I was present, but not truly present. Still, I kept praying. I asked God to make the truth plain. I didn’t want to guess or assume anymore. I just needed clarity. And one day, He gave it to me.

I found her. I reached out and told her everything. And just like that, the picture shattered. Turns out they were together before he and I ever officially started. I was the other woman or girl, for that matter. She had already found out about me once before and asked him to stop talking to me. But he kept coming back. He kept returning like nothing ever happened, he was an addict.

She told me something that stayed with me. She said, “You don’t need someone. It’s just nice to have someone.” And it hit me, how much I had confused desire with necessity. How much I had been fighting to hold onto something I never truly had. Her words gave me the peace he never could.

After that, something in me changed. I stopped seeing him as a sheep I needed to pray over. I started paying attention to how I felt, not just what I hoped. I had ignored too many signs, dismissed too many moments of unease, because I wanted love to work. But love built on lies isn’t love at all. I was young, impressionable, and desperate to believe the best in him. But now I’m fortified. I’ve forgiven him. I’ve released it to God. I trust Him to deal with what I never could.

As for him, I left him in the hands of God where he has always been. I carry the lesson, not the man. So I’ve let go of you, Anthony