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I thought he was the one.
The boy I fell in love with at 17 was the only one I could see a future with for the five years that followed.
Maybe it was the July heat or the open space to dream that Texas always gives, but I was hooked.
For five years, we never went a day without talking.
We were together, but not together—you know that “I want you, but I don’t want a title” kind of love us girls go crazy for?
Our visits had long gaps in between, and we both saw other people, but he felt like home.
I never questioned where I stood in his heart, and he knew he was the center of mine.
We saw each other when we could afford a plane ticket—even if it meant helping the other with their summer job and 4 a.m. wake-up calls.
We had dreams and plans and enough love to take us there.
Five years is a lot of life.
I’ve never shared the part of my heart that was his because, for a while, it was too painful to revisit.
Love always reaches a crossroads where breaking the plateau and stepping into forever means accepting the sacrifice.
For us, that meant one had to choose the other over our home.
We didn’t know how to let go, so we’d make excuses.
It was always “After this,” or “Before that.”
We were always making it right to the edge but never had enough courage to jump.
The desire was as strong as the resistance.
We’d exhaust ourselves talking about it and then just fall back into the pattern—little mini honeymoons where we could ignore the fact that we both needed more.
We were all-in when we were together and halfway when we were apart.
I thought it was enough til’ a man showed up who was actually ready and available to love me; it knocked me to my knees.
I realized love is a full-time gig. I learned that you could be in love and not be all-in, but you need both.
That the logistics, finances, and circumstances are just excuses, and excuses are really doubt.
I now know that we have to leave the love that’s most of it to receive the love that’s all of it.