There was always something sacred to me about waiting.
Not the kind of waiting you do in a line or for being late but…but the deeper kind. The kind where you tell yourself, "I'll hold off, because when the right one comes, I'll know".
I grew up believing love should mean something. That intimacy wasn't just about pleasure or pressure..it was about connection, commitment, maybe even a forever kind of feeling.
So I waited.
While friends shared stories in whispers, counting conquests like trophies, I quietly held onto mine…my virginity..not as something I owed anyone, but as something I chose to keep for someone who'd truly see me. It wasn't just about sex, it was about value.
Body count mattered to me…not for judgment, but for emotional safety. I was scared to give something I couldn't take back.
And I carried that with me into the university.
At twenty, in my second year, I was focused on grades, late-night study sessions, and calling my mom when things felt too heavy. Love, or anything like it, was a distant thing I admired from afar but didn't pursue.
Until "him"
"Michael Abraham".
Came into the picture. He had a round cute face, a physique of the kind that can keep your eyes glued to a magazine.
He wasn't the loudest in school or the most popular guy on campus. But he had this calm confidence, this smile that didn't try too hard.
He spoke to me like I mattered not just as a girl, but as a person. And slowly, gently, I let my guard down.
He didn't rush me, and maybe that's why I trusted him.
We spent hours talking about music, fears, and the future.
He asked about my boundaries, and for the first time, I felt seen. Like someone wasn't trying to peel me apart just to get a piece of me.
I told myself, "Maybe he's the one".
The night it happened was quiet,no candlelight, no grand gesture. Just the two of us in his apartment after a long evening of "studying" that slowly turned into shared glances and accidental touches.
He kissed me like I was fragile. Touched me like I was art.
And I let him in.
The pain was sharper than I expected, but I braved it, telling myself that this was what love looked like. That if I just gave him everything, maybe he'd give me forever.
He didn't.
A week later, my period was late.
Panic slammed into my chest like a freight train. I couldn't eat,I couldn't sleep,I cried in the bathroom at night, staring at the calendar on my phone like it held all the answers.
I told him, sent him a voice note with trembling hands.
"Michael, I… I think I might be pregnant."
I waited an hour,nothing..two, still nothing.
By the next day, he'd ghosted me completely.
No texts,no calls.
I checked his display picture to be sure he didn't block me on WhatsApp too because of how he vanished from every corner of my digital world.
Just like that.
And I broke into several pieces such that I can't describe the amount.
I wasn't pregnant, just late from stress. But the damage had already been done. Not to my body but to my trust and my heart.
He didn't even care to find out the truth.
Whenever my phone buzzed,I jumped, hoping it was him. But it wasn't. Just another group chat notification.
I put my phone down and whispered to myself, "Why does love have to hurt so much?"
Days turned into weeks. The pain didn't fade,it transformed into a dull ache, like a scar that still stings when touched.
At first, I thought he was processing. Maybe he was scared, just like I was. I told myself to be patient. But each day that passed without a word from him chipped away at my sanity.
I refreshed my chats, checked if he was online.
Nothing!!.
The version of me that trusted someone with my body and the version that believed love could protect crumbled.
You never forget the first time someone disappears on you. It's not just about losing them. It's about what it does to your belief in yourself. I questioned everything: my worth, my judgment, my body.
Was I too easy? Too available? Did I give away something I shouldn't have?
I had saved that part of myself for so long, thinking it would mean something. And when I finally gave it away, it felt like I'd just handed someone my heart and they tossed it out the window without looking back.
Still, I told no one.. I buried it.
Put on a brave face,studied harder, smiled through it, laughed with friends at lunch and took selfies that looked nothing like what I felt inside.
But at night, it all came rushing in.
There was a time I sat in the shower until the water turned cold, letting it hit my skin like punishment. I cried into my pillow, hugging it like it could hold me better than any man ever had.
What haunted me most wasn't that he left…it was that he made me believe I was special. Then acted like I never existed.
How does someone do that?
To this day, I remember the sound of my phone buzzing at night and my heart hoping it was him. Even when I knew it wouldn't be. Even when I hated him. Even when I hated myself more.
I tried journaling, I wrote letters I never sent.
"Dear Michael,
You made me feel like I mattered.
And then you vanished.
Do you even remember what you took from me?"
I never sent it. What would be the point?
My pride wouldn't let me beg. My fear wouldn't let me trust again.
But still… I longed for a kind of closure I never got.
And in the weeks that followed, I changed.
I stopped being the girl who believed love would protect.
I became the girl who knew better.
But there's a strange thing about heartbreak, it doesn't kill your ability to love. It just changes how you give it.
You become cautious, you smile less and probably also laugh with hesitation.
And when the next person comes along, you don't give them your whole heart.
You give them what's left.
I told myself I wouldn't fall again.