What Was Love?

CW: Cheating, Language, Mentions of Sexual Situations.

Some people need a villain in their story.

I guess that’s me.

I cheated.

Yes, I know it’s one of the worst things you can do.

Call it a mistake; call it a momentary lapse in judgment. I could give you every excuse in the book, but it wouldn’t make it right. I know I hurt him. Harrison didn’t deserve it, but would it make a difference if I told you I regretted it, that I wish I could take it back?

I dated Harrison for four years.

He was the kind of guy I thought could save me, the one I thought could save me from myself, but I was wrong. It was going to happen, whether it was then or somewhere down the line. I knew all my tiny deceptions were blooming like a storm on the horizon, that it was just a matter of time before the downpour—tell me this. Have you ever been so happy that it hurt, so in love that you suffocated with it, a ball and chain at your ankle, a love so deep that you would destroy yourself for it?

And maybe I did, but it wasn’t for the sake of love.

It was for me.

I chose myself.

If I had stayed, it all would have been a lie.

I know that I went about it the wrong way, but at that point in our relationship, it didn’t seem like I had any other choice. Love was the rope digging into my neck that left me hanging motionless, suspended in time, in a place, in a person—my whole identity unchanging because there was nothing else that existed outside of me and Harrison. There could be no Leah without Harrison or Harrison without Leah.

Pitiful, I know.

I could tell you my sob story, but would you believe me? Would you keep an open mind and try to understand? I’m not a victim, but maybe everyone is a victim of their own demise. I chose mine, and now I have to live with the consequences.

I had DM’ed him. Harrison had blocked me on everything else, so it was my last resort. It was selfish, I know, but obviously, we’ve already established that… hence the cheating.

It was strange to see him happy. I had heard the stories that he had moved on. I guess I wasn’t expecting to see it in person, be that close, witness the way they meshed—it was his hand in hers, an arm around the waist, a whisper in her ear—I felt the balance, their smooth give and take, nothing like us. There was something devastating about the connection. The disparity was in the history lost, the friend, the lover, now a stranger, because he was different. That part was clear, and I was the one looking for proof of their authenticity. I needed to know if it was real.

And when he leaned down and kissed her on the top of her head, so intimate, so tender, both of them in their own world, jealousy grabbed me by the hand, and all in that moment, I never felt so alive and so dead.

That was when jealousy would become my companion.

But jealousy would also destroy me because there’s a reason they say not to go looking for things you shouldn’t be looking for.

In that moment, I was a passing glance. His familiar eyes, like looking in the mirror, flitted past me, not even a hint of recognition—and I get it, I really did get it, I deserved it, this was all my fault, but that doesn’t change the fact that it hurt, that I was beside myself all night, that I pretended to yield some kind of power over him when I didn’t.

She must have sensed it, felt the tether I was trying to pull. One look was all I was asking for, but would it have changed anything? But then she looked at me, and that in itself was devastating. I saw the fear as soon as we locked eyes, and it gave me the delusional courage I needed.

I didn’t want to make a scene. I just wanted him to acknowledge me, the slightest bit of recognition, that yes, there’s the person I spent four years of my life with, entangled in the same sheets the new girl was probably sleeping on—a single degree of separation.

And this is where maybe I was the villain.

I wanted to test the waters. I wanted to see how much our history meant to him, to see if I still had any pull. At the time, I thought it would make me feel better or give me the boost I needed. Yank me from the depth in which I had let myself fall because, if I’m being honest, cheating on Harrison was the worst mistake I had ever made, and looking back, it was one of those moments when you think the grass is greener.

It wasn’t, and I’ve learned that it never will be unless you learn to water your own.

Even if I wasn’t expecting him to speak, when he left with her that night, all I could think about was her in his bed, and the second he walked out of that door, it was like losing him all over again. That tether being snapped, a finality that I never understood until that moment. Every action that got me to that point started carving out that hollow that I created, digging into me until it emptied me out.

That ache for him was bone-deep, but I did it to myself.

It was easier when there was distance. I could distract myself and chase those temporary highs as if they would last forever, and the more someone was in my bed, the more I stopped thinking of Harrison. But did he ever think of me? Would he think of me that night when he laid her down? The thought made me a monster, and I wanted him to think of me. I wanted him to sleep with her and see my message and feel something, anything, it didn’t matter, but at least I would make an impression on his mind again.

What had he told her about me? Did he tell her I was crazy? All those times he held me, kissed me, and told me I was his only one flooded in, haunting me, becoming the ghost of what we were, tormenting my every thought for weeks to come. All I could think about was the last time we were together. I never thought it would be our last, thought that we would ever break up.

L: Hey, can we talk?

That was all I said, and as soon as I sent it, I knew it was wrong, but here’s the thing: This was my problem. This was the reason for most of our fights. As soon as Harrison and I went off to college, something changed. It was like we were thrust into a new world where we had to reestablish our relationship. What once felt solid felt weak in my grasp.

There were so many girls pining for him. It turned into me claiming him like he was some sort of possession, which made me feel crazy because he never, not once, gave me a reason to fret over anything he was doing, but I couldn’t stop. It was like once it started, it became a slow-burning obsession. I liked the attention; I liked being the girl with the cute guy that everyone wanted, and it wasn’t just the attention from the girls; it was from the guys, too.

And this was our downfall.

Our storm beginning to brew.

The more possessive I got, the more desperate I became, and the more Harrison and I fought—not just little fights, but big blowouts, yelling at the top of our lungs, volatile. The more he said, “I love you,” the more I pulled away because I knew he loved me. I really did, but there was always going to be something or someone who brought out the insecurities I was fighting tooth and nail to hide.

It was push and pull—If he told me I was beautiful, I didn’t believe him, and then I would drink, and of course, it would be a good time, then the second we got home, I would pick a fight, the night ending with me crying over the bathroom toilet, or crawling to him on our bedroom floor, Harry screaming he had enough—It was always me picking a fight. By the end, I just wanted to get a reaction; I wanted him to make me feel something, call it sick, a deceptive, manipulative mix of contradictions. I wanted him to fight, I wanted him to fight for us, and dammit, he was so good, and I took him for granted.

How many times was my mouth empty with the words I wanted to say? How do you tell someone you love, who loves you, who’s on their knees begging for you to stay, that you’re bored, that with every touch you felt nothing, that their devotion was killing any desire you had left? That every time they gave you that look, the desperation swelling in their eyes, that bribing stare that made you doubt yourself with every plea, that you had enough, that you were at your breaking point, and in that moment, you know that you’re hurting them, that you’re dead were your standing, but it doesn’t change the way you feel.

Because nothing was enough.

I wanted more.

When that wasn’t enough, I slept with his friend. I wanted something new, to taste the kiss of someone else. Feel their passion, their want, and now, when I look back, I don’t even know what I wanted—I wanted more, but more of what? To feel wanted? To feel attractive? I wanted to feel just as desirable as him. I wanted to be seen in the light that they all saw him in.

I wanted to take and not have to give.

That’s when desire led to deception.

My deception was me quietly slithering through all the empty spaces in my life. The guilt was knowing and choosing to plot and scheme ways to toe the line before I even acted on anything. It was all in my head at first; that was the danger—the silence, the dissociation feeding the conceptions until I was playing them out.

So, I started going to more parties with my friends, choosing the nights that I knew Harrison was busy. More guys started noticing me, then, when I wasn’t glued to his side. At first, I thought the attention was enough; it was harmless. Most of them knew I was the girl they couldn’t have, the girl who was off limits. I thought a couple of flirty comments, here and there, were harmless—until Jake came along.

Now, queue the cheating because that’s when I hooked up with Jake in the back of his mom’s minivan because his car was in the shop, and the second he pushed inside me, I felt disgusted with myself, felt my desperation like greed seeping from the tips of my fingers, willing to accept anything—my standards out the window like the condom he tossed when we were done—yet it was the most alive I had ever felt. It wasn’t even good; it was the idea that I could be my own person that turned me on the most, and yes, I realize now there are healthier ways to go about it, but at the time, it didn’t feel like there was any other way out unless I destroyed it all.

Eventually, I learned that my relationship with Harrison was a reminder of the safety I chose, knowing that Harrison would always be there. However, it took my fickle heart to remind me that he deserved better, not the kind of person who would throw it all away for a half-hearted lay.

It didn’t take me long to realize the day I willed our love to die was the day my heart turned wicked.

When we finally talked on the phone, it was our first real conversation since it ended. I told him everything. All the things I was to afraid to say before, every hurtful truth falling out as long pockets of silence weighed heavy on the line, and when I heard him cry, I cried too, begging for a second chance, and there I was, pushing the words from my tight chest like that plea was my only chance at forgiveness because I wanted it so bad—I wanted him—I wanted him back, and I was willing to do anything to hold on to the idea of what we were.

And that is what it was—an idea.

I was so wrapped up in the idea of what we were, in the temporary comfort he brought, knowing that he was willing, that I found myself getting lost in it. I thought that if he went to the wedding, it would fix everything. He would see my sister and Jackson, who were so happy, a couple we both admired, and it would bring us back to ourselves and who we were. Maybe we could still play out that future, like maybe he could still see himself fulfilling that daydream we always talked about.

But this was only a plan, an intention. That’s all it ever was, and plans change.

That night, we found ourselves circling around a mask of niceties fit for strangers, trying to slip back into a role that no longer belonged to us. He had changed, and so had I, and that devastation that I had felt before was back tenfold. I had him there, but I could tell he was somewhere else, and every time he checked his phone, I found myself right back in that place, that same toxic pattern of thinking, and if I thought I was insecure before, well rake me over the coals because my whole body was on fire with it.

A storm of jealousy.

Fuck jealousy.

It’s been done to death, but tell me how to stop. Why does desperation have to go hand in hand—a vicious act, a vicious cycle, and then I’m lost in it?

After the wedding, I let my desperation take over when I pulled him into my childhood room that night. I thought this was something we knew, something that could bridge the gap—the distance between our past and present.

All night, it was in his eyes, a caution threatening the surface, the safety in his precise words when someone put him on the spot, his body guarded anytime I got too close. It wasn’t until the drinks started flowing that he finally loosened up, but even then, there was a flicker, a ripple of reality that would sweep over his face, and then he would reel himself back in, and I watched him wage war with it—that mask now an art of self-preservation.

What was right and wrong in this situation?

When his phone died, I could see the guilt weighing on his features, his furrowed brow, the way his gaze lingered on the black screen. All evening, I found myself pleading that internal plea for him to grasp the tether I was so obviously pushing when, in all reality, he was already tethered to her. She was the one on his mind; she was the one who was going to get him, and still, I couldn’t let him go.

As I sat on the edge of my bed, silence seemed to hum out the emptiness we both felt, the lack of words that would make this any easier, and that hollow deepened as I watched Harry’s eyes roam the room. The room he had seen so many times was as familiar as his own. Still, his eyes scanned every surface as if it were new, staring at every plain with new eyes, and then I felt myself doing the same, watching him through a new lens, and the feeling was scary, an awkward indifference neither one of us knew how to navigate.

We both knew there had been too much distance, that this wouldn’t work. Here was the consequence of all my wants: that storm moving in, stealing the color from our world. Tired was all I could think, exhaustion in every movement as a subtle desperation rolled in. The storm was no longer on the horizon—it hung above us, a shift, the room growing dark, the static charging the air, crawling over our skin.

But neither one of us could say it.

We didn’t have a future, no forever waiting on the other side.

Now our lost forever will be the noose that’s still cutting into my throat, a distant memory of what love was and could have been, a growing pain, a lesson learned. A regret that will shape my future and a shame I’ll have to live with, but this is my truth, and I am the person I have to live with, the person I have to face every day.

Love is real, but there should never be a time you have to destroy yourself for the sake of existing or destroy those you love for the chance to grow. You’re only a villain in someone else’s story if they allow it, and there may be times when you’re the villain in your own story, and that is a consequence you’ll have to accept, an accountability you’ll have to hold, a punishing reality of your own demises.

And my punishing reality was that I was free the entire time.

With or without him, I was always free.