I met Andre at a group therapy workshop called "The Art of Letting Go." He sat across from me in a circle of folding chairs and flickering candles, wearing a charcoal sweater, clean sneakers, and a guarded expression.
When it was his turn to speak, he said, "I'm learning how not to abandon myself in pursuit of being chosen."
And I felt that like a punch to the ribs. Not because I hadn't heard it before—but because I hadn't admitted it aloud myself.
After the session, I found him in the hallway by the vending machine. We started talking. Slowly. Casually. Carefully. He wasn't flirtatious—he was curious.
"Tell me your survival tactics," he asked, sipping some bitter tea neither of us liked.
I told him mine: success. Schedules. Smiling when I wanted to scream. He nodded. "Same. Control is my comfort food."
It was… intoxicating. Not in the fireworks-and-flirtation kind of way—but in the finally, someone who gets it kind of way. We exchanged numbers. He texted that night—not to flirt. Just to keep the thread going.
"I don't want to move fast," he said. "I'm trying to date with intention."
He spoke the same language I did: Attachment style. Reparenting. Boundaries. Emotional regulation.
We started dating like two people writing a co-authored research paper titled "Healing While Hoping for Love."
Our first kiss happened after a day spent rearranging his bookshelves and talking about grief. He asked for consent. Paused to check in mid-kiss. And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like prey. I felt seen.
By the third date, we had each other's therapy schedules memorized. We traded podcast episodes, Substack articles, voice memos about emotional labor and inner child wounds. We even joked about it.
"Maybe we're too healed for chaos," he texted one night. I replied, "Or too traumatized to function without it."
We laughed. We didn't realize that would become our curse.
Because when the connection started to deepen, so did the patterns we thought we'd outgrown. He'd go silent when I got emotional. I'd get sharp when he withdrew. We called it "triggered states." We used the right words.
But saying "I'm being avoidant right now" isn't the same as staying in the room. Saying "This is a trauma response" doesn't undo the damage.
We started intellectualizing our pain. Diagnosing our arguments like case studies. We didn't scream—we analyzed. Didn't repair—we reflected. We stopped listening to each other and started listening only to the theories we had studied.
Healing became performance. Love became homework. And somewhere between the boundaries and the breathwork, I stopped feeling held.
At work, I was mentoring younger women. Leading panels. Writing articles about resilience and boundaries. People looked at me like a lighthouse. And I smiled, nodded, encouraged.
But some nights I sat on the edge of my bed and whispered, "I don't want to be strong today."
I was tired of being the blueprint. Tired of being wise. Tired of dating like a checklist of coping strategies.
Andre was everything I thought I needed: emotionally literate, introspective, self-aware. But what neither of us could admit yet was that we weren't dating each other. We were dating our own reflections.
He mirrored all the best parts of me—the gentle introspection, the hunger for clarity, the need to feel known. But mirrors don't hold you. Mirrors don't choose you. They just show you what you hope to see.
And when he slowly stopped texting first, when I noticed our calls turning into catch-up reports instead of connection, I didn't feel heartbreak. I felt relief.
Not because he was bad. But because I was tired of holding a version of love I still had to perform.
So I took myself out. For real, this time. A date with myself. Dinner at a place with dim lights and good wine. I wore lipstick for no one but me. I ordered what I wanted. I sat by the window. I didn't wait for anyone to join me.
I watched couples pass by, hands entwined, heads tilted in laughter. And I didn't feel envy. I felt still.
I thought of Andre. Of Julian. Of Liam. Of Daniel. Of all the men I tried to become small or dazzling or digestible for. And I whispered, "Thank you for leaving."
Not out of bitterness. Out of clarity.
Because every time someone chose not to stay, I got closer to staying with myself.
I walked home that night beneath Manila's tired streetlights. Cars honking. Dogs barking. Someone selling taho in the distance. And in all that noise, I felt quiet inside.
Not empty. Just finally full.
This wasn't a conclusion. This wasn't a triumph. It was a beginning.
A woman eating by herself, walking herself home, learning not to abandon herself in pursuit of being chosen.
Learning that sometimes, the healthiest relationship is the one you build with the part of yourself that stopped waiting.
I started celebrating small things like they mattered. I bought a new plant and named it after my grandmother. I turned my phone off after 9 p.m. I kept a running list of things that made me laugh alone. I danced in the kitchen with no music. I asked myself every morning, "What do I need today that I can give myself?"
I answered that question, over and over, until I believed I was enough.
And one day, I caught my reflection in a store window and thought—not in vanity, but in awe—"She's beautiful."
I didn't chase a text that night. I didn't post something hoping to be seen. I curled up with a book and tea, and let silence be my company.
No one else arrived. But I did.
And that was more than enough.