Her fake love

It all started on a cloudy afternoon when the sky didn't seem to know what to do, like it was stuck between rain and sun. That was the sort of day that she entered my life. I had no idea at the time how unpredictable she would be, just like the weather. We met in the most ordinary way—at a small local bookstore. She was softly muttering lines to herself as she thumbed through an out-of-date poetry book. I couldn't help but be pulled toward her voice as I pretended to browse. She smiled as if she had known me her entire life and looked up to meet my eyes. That smile was my undoing. From that moment, things took off in a blur of emotions and moments that felt too perfect to be real. We discussed books, music, our anxieties, and our childhood aspirations. When she talked about the stars, her eyes would light up, and she always had a faint scent of jasmine and old books. I noticed that parts of my personality were aligning with hers with each conversation. I fell. Hard. She said she felt the same. Whispered sweet promises under the moonlight, held my hand like she’d never let go, and called me her "home." I also trusted her. Why would I not? With her, every moment felt like poetry. But poetry often comes from heartbreak, I would soon discover. Cracks started to appear as the weeks turned into months. She stopped responding, and then she stopped being there. It appeared as though she was speaking to someone she barely recognized, as the warmth in her voice gave way to cold curiosity. She would laugh it off with a kiss and say, "You overthink too much," when I asked her if there was something wrong. However, it did not overthink. It was me watching the love I thought was real slip quietly through the spaces between our fingers. I still recall a particular evening when I had prepared dinner, lit a few candles, and even played her preferred playlist. She arrived late, claimed to have forgotten, barely touched her food, and promptly left, claiming to be exhausted. I sat by myself that evening, gazing at the candle's dripping wax like time had passed. I felt abandoned while sitting in the same room where we once danced barefoot. The middle part of our story was chaos wrapped in silence. I was breaking, quietly. Still deeply in love with her. I wrote unsent letters, cried in showers, and smiled when she was around even though her eyes no longer looked into mine the way they used to. My love turned into a one-way street filled with desperation and confusion. She started spending less time with me and more time on her phone. I justified it to myself as work. I desired to believe that love does not simply vanish without a goodbye. But it can. Yes, it did. One night, the truth came not through confession but exposure. I observed the messages. Photos: a trail of flirtatious nicknames and heart emojis sent to someone else. My world, which I had built so carefully around her, collapsed in a flash. She cheated on me. And what hurt the most wasn’t the act itself—but the fact that she didn’t even try to hide it anymore. No excuses. No reasons. No apologies. It was as if I had disappeared, serving as a placeholder until someone more "exciting" appeared. I asked her why. She gave a shrug. Said, "Things just changed," as if love was a commodity with a finite lifespan. I stood there, heart shattered, and she walked away without looking back—like none of it ever meant anything. It’s been months since then. Sometimes, I still dream of her voice. from that bookshop. Of her whispering Rumi in my ear and telling me how the universe wanted us to meet. I'm curious as to whether she meant any of it or whether it was all part of the performance. Maybe she just loved the idea of love, the attention, the thrill of something new—until it wasn’t thrilling anymore. I have tried to despise her. I really have. But I only feel numb. like leaving a page unfinished. Like a song that was beautiful but never meant to finish. And yet, even in all this pain, I’ve learned something: love isn’t always mutual. The most sincere hearts sometimes find themselves in the hands of those who do not know how to hold them. Her love was fake. Mine, however, was not. And that’s what makes the story both tragic and beautiful. Because I gave everything I had—honestly, fearlessly, and fully. And someday, someone else will read this story and recognize their own pain in these words. I tell them, "You're not alone." Even though it seems like the world is made of broken promises right now, you will heal.