First, Last, DOB

The minute a girl tries first in a relationship, is the moment she gets screwed over.

I used to think that was sexist. Now, at 23, it seems to be proven time and time again. If I chase them first, they are not going to chase me back. If they start out emotionally unavailable, they’re not going to open up. Not to the extent I want. I know this. I knew this. So why didn’t I believe it?

The answer lay in the start of December, a black journal, and desperation for a meant to be. My first year of University. I was ambitious; accepted into a quadruple major in Art Studio, Psychology, Chinese, and Japanese.

My friends? We’d go out at midnight. Watch the trains go by close enough that we could see the sparks as it trekked across the tracks. Laid next to each other on the sand of the Boardwalk. Friendship Flatbreads. Platonic, but perfect for watching the stars and pretending like recognizing the Big Dipper made me the protagonist of my own story.

My life was an adventure because I sought it. And like any adventuress, I was obsessed with a love interest. My childhood friend. A perfect textbook example of a love cliché waiting to come to be. Different worlds. A street-smart boy who snuck out for drugs. Then me, a girl that snuck out to go read at a library. I felt a connection and thought we could be more. I wanted us to be.

Then one day, a black journal told me we could.

“He’s your soulmate.” It wrote back to me. Pretty handwriting faded into view right underneath where I had written our full names and date of birth. The journal was leather bound. Slick. Smooth. It was a bit bigger than my hand, but in Pre-Calculus class of 20 people, it made me look like I was just taking notes.

When I wrote our names and dates of births on different pages, it would reply differently. He likes you but he’s too scared to pursue anything. Sometimes, it would pick up on details I never mentioned, like how our moms were close and he was scared that if we dated, then broke up, it would make our family-friend relationship awkward. On other pages, it would even give me paragraphs in response.

Reasons upon reasons that he never told me himself, I would receive. Simply by writing down on its pages. But the overall message was the same. The timeframes it gave were always accurate. And it made me feel like I really was, a protagonist.

This journal became my best friend. A fortune telling consultant I could always go to and no one would ever know. I could write out and vent as much as I wanted. It would never judge me. It couldn’t judge me. A constant third party that would never call me out for being unhealthily obsessive. I was in love.

Then, one of the pages finally said that he was not my soulmate.

My childhood friend was just temporary.

At this point, I already scared off my childhood friend with my advances and our friendship was broken. But the journal always explained why. He really cared about me. He just needed time.

Except for this page.

That day, this page gave me a full page of a new love scenario. My twin flame. His initials, height, major in school, and that we would meet in November.

Endless readings and writings later, Summer of post-freshman year began.

I quit college. My roommate and I had a falling out. My journal said we would be fine, but I guess even fortune tellers make mistakes. Especially if they're just a book.

My father left my mother because he felt like he was never good enough for her. Left her $20,000 to her name. A replacement for himself. It sat there. She opened a separate savings account for it. It remained untouched. A constant reminder of how there was more to a relationship than just herself.

For me, it meant that love was doing what was best for the other person, even if you didn’t want to. It made me determined. Real love was you caring even when you can't handle the other person anymore. That's what I was going to find.

It made me wonder, when will I meet the one?

So that's exactly what I asked. On off days, I would take out my black journal and write the same questions. My name. Date of birth.

The answers still varied page to page; but once again, the message was the same. The end of the year. November. You’ll take time meeting and fall in love. And it was right. In November, the year after I had quit college, we met.

It was everything my journal had predicted and more.

He felt like home. My heart would stop when he held my hand. Talking to him felt so natural. But I knew. Like my dad, real love will come to an end.

I was scared.

Not even a week in, I asked that if he were going to break up with me, to wait until a month out. So, my first real boyfriend, would last longer than just a week.

He was confused.

I was a mess.

But we clicked so hard that even now, when we met at 20 and I am now 23, I still remember every moment as if it had just happened.

Our break-up happened just as fast.

My mom passed away two months into us. The $20,000 was now mine. It never made up for my dad not being there and it definitely did not for my mother’s death.

$20,000 was now my constant reminder that the people I love, leave.

It felt like he was all I had, but he shut down. It started out with “I’m sorry” then “I love you”. Then, read messages. Distance. Minutes turned into hours. Hours would turn into no response at all.

I turned to my journal. It told me, I was too emotional.

He is not good at expressing his emotions.

He is overwhelmed.

Every time I wrote down his name and date of birth, that would be the answer. Pages upon pages were filled with my messy handwriting asking about us.

When does “Does he love me” become “Should I break up with him?”

According to my journal, it was 2 and a half months in. The day after Valentine’s Day when he does not get me anything for Valentines day. 2 weeks after my mom passes away and he's overwhelmed. It came in more paragraphs of predictions. How I would meet someone else and then my twin flame and I would reconnect. How he still loved me but was hurt by the break-up. How we were still meant to be.

When I get lonely, I still think that’s what I’m looking for.

A meant to be.

Once again, my little black journal was right. I met a new guy that treated me well, but I didn’t love him like I loved my so-called “twin flame”. Things ended. Now, my twin flame and I are both 23. Reconnected. Reconciled. But distant.

My journal says that he still cares about me, but he’s scared. He’ll open up more in one to two months and then commit to me in four. He doesn’t act like it. It’s the same. A fun conversation. Read messages. Distance. Repeat.

I'll bring up the doubt and the journal will respond. Be wise not emotional.

I have $20,000 untouched. With time and after my mom passed, I learned. What my dad did wasn't love.

My mom never touched it because using any of it means that my dad’s presence really did just amount to $20,000. That it justified his departure.

That it’s okay to stop trying.

It’s not.

I can't touch it. It's my constant reminder that when someone genuinely loves you, they will do anything and everything for you. They will take you into consideration. That even when they leave, they will still prioritize you.

That's what she did for me.

But in that, it also means that if you love someone, you'll do what you think is best for them regardless of how they feel.

I still write in my black journal every day and ask the same kinds of questions. It gives the same kinds of answers. If it never told me about him, would I still be interested? In the end, do I just want a movie-like love story where a journal predicted exactly who I would meet?

A story where love conquers all.

Fulfillment in choosing to be in something that is hard because I want to be there.

I still don't know.

If this is what being an adventurous protagonist means, I know I don’t want it. Even if it can predict the future, maybe my little black journal is wrong. Maybe we’re not meant to be. Because he likes me, but he doesn’t love me. And maybe, I never loved him.

I never wanted this $20,000.

Listening to my journal, $20,000 is all I'll ever be.

But I can't break this $20,000 cycle by just being me.

I need to become more than myself.

Then maybe, just maybe, my meant to be will find me.