Heartbreak was no stranger to me. I’d grown used to the sting of goodbye, the weight of disappointment, and the quiet nights wondering if love was just a cruel illusion. I tried again and again, only to end up with shattered pieces in my hands.
And then there was him.
He wasn’t part of the heartbreak carousel. No, he was the one who stood on the sidelines, watching me fall, always ready to help me stand again. I called him my “matcha guy” once because he loved matcha lattes more than life itself—and because I was too afraid to call him what he truly was: my constant.
But I kept pushing him away. He deserved someone whole, not me—a person who couldn’t tell the difference between love and heartbreak anymore.
Yet, no matter how far I ran, he stayed. Quiet, patient, like a lighthouse in a storm.
One night, after yet another heartbreak, I sat on the cold floor of my living room, staring at the ceiling. The familiar ache in my chest whispered the same bitter story: “Love isn’t for you.” But then, almost like a voice from somewhere beyond me, I remembered his words:
“You are someone’s dream person. So please don’t change a thing about yourself until they find you.”
Tears blurred my vision. Was that a prayer? His prayer? A hope whispered into the universe, waiting for me to stop running and start believing?
Before I could stop myself, I grabbed my phone. My heart raced as I typed the words:
“I’m sorry. I failed again.”
I hesitated. He was in Singapore, watching the F1 Grand Prix live. I remembered how excited he’d been—like a kid going to Disneyland. The night air hummed with the sound of engines and adrenaline where he was. Here I was, ruining his perfect night with my broken heart.
But I hit send anyway.
Seconds passed. Then minutes. I cursed myself for sending it. Of course he wouldn’t reply. Why should he? He deserved more than a late-night SOS from me.
But then, my phone buzzed.
“Are you okay?”
I could almost hear his voice through the text—calm, steady, like it always was.
“No.”
He didn’t send words after that. He called. The sound of roaring engines still faintly echoed in the background, though the race had long ended. I could hear the occasional laughter from passing fans, the metallic hum of the night still buzzing with post-race energy. But all I focused on was his voice.
“Tell me what happened.”
And so I did. I told him about the heartbreak, the exhaustion, and the endless cycle of hope and disappointment. I told him how scared I was to believe in love again. How guilty I felt for texting him while he was living his dream night.
He let me finish. Then, with the same calm certainty he’d always had, he said:
“You think this is a dream night? No. The real dream is you calling me. You finally letting me in.”
The engines roared in the background. My heart raced louder.
“Your person will come along and love you exactly the way you are. No conditions. No maybe,” he reminded me softly. “I’m here. I’ve been here. Are you ready to stop running?”
For the first time in forever, I was.
That night, while the world watched cars race through the streets of Singapore, I stopped running. And in the stillness, I found him—waiting, as he always had been.
Days passed after that night, but the feeling stayed. The warmth of his voice, the certainty of his love. I told myself it was a fleeting moment, a spark born from vulnerability, but his consistency proved me wrong.
He didn’t just show up that night; he stayed every day after.
There were moments when my old fears returned—whispers of doubt asking how someone like him could love someone like me. I questioned everything: Why me? Why does he stay when he could find someone easier, someone less complicated?
But every time I doubted, he answered—not always with words, but through his actions. The quiet way he remembered the smallest details about me. The way he never tried to fix me, only stood beside me until I was ready to heal on my own.
And then, one evening, as we sat on his balcony watching the sky turn amber and gold, he said, almost absentmindedly:
“you know, I’ve never thought of loving you as a choice. It’s just what my heart naturally does.”
I smiled, but my heart trembled. It wasn’t grand or dramatic—it was simple, like breathing. And that’s when I realized: the kind of love I had searched for all these years wasn’t the one that swept me off my feet; it was the one that stood beside me when I couldn’t stand at all.
Love wasn’t the adrenaline rush of a new beginning or the desperate hope of chasing something better. It was found in the quiet consistency of a heart that stayed.
And so, after all the heartbreaks, the doubts, and the endless running, I let myself believe in his love.
I let myself believe in us.
Because after I finally dared to fight the questions in my head—the constant whispers of “How can he choose me when he could have a love so much more perfect?"—I discovered the love I had been searching for all along.
The love I truly needed.
