I Became the Person I Swore I’d Never Be

In her story, I was the heartbreak.

Not because I cheated. Not because I lied.

But because I didn’t love her the way she deserved—and I knew it.

They say in our culture, men don’t cry.

But I think we just do it in silence. In regret. In memory.

And sometimes, in stories like this.

Her name was Areeba.

She had the kind of heart you don’t expect to find anymore—open, forgiving, loyal in a way that felt like home. She texted back within minutes, asked about my day like it mattered, and remembered the smallest things I told her.

And I?

I was still learning how to show up for myself, let alone someone else.

We met during our university days in Islamabad—young, chaotic, full of words we didn’t understand the weight of.

She was majoring in psychology, which should’ve warned me.

Girls who study people tend to see through boys like me.

She told me once, “I don’t want perfect. I just want present.”

And even that… was too much for me back then.

I wasn’t abusive. I wasn’t cruel.

But I was careless. And in some ways, that’s worse.

Because when someone gives you their trust and you treat it like a burden, you leave wounds they never deserved.

I’d disappear for days, then come back with half-hearted apologies.

“I was busy.”

“I forgot.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

She forgave me more times than I want to admit. And every time she did, I believed I’d gotten away with it.

But love doesn’t work like that.

It isn’t about getting away with things.

It’s about showing up when it’s hardest.

I remember the night it all broke.

We were sitting in a chai dhaba near F-7. It was raining lightly, and she had henna stains still fading on her hands from a cousin’s wedding.

She said, “I feel like I’m the only one holding this together.”

And for the first time, I didn’t deny it. I just looked at her, quiet, knowing she was right.

Maybe I thought that moment would pass. That she’d stay. That she always would.

But she didn’t.

A week later, she stopped replying.

No confrontation. No dramatic goodbye.

Just silence—the kind that echoes louder than screaming ever could.

At first, I was angry.

How dare she walk away after everything?

But deep down, I knew… she didn’t leave me.

She saved herself.

And in that story—hers—I was the villain.

Not with violence or betrayal.

But with absence, avoidance, and emotional cowardice.

Years have passed.

I’ve learned how to listen. How to speak. How to be present, even when it's uncomfortable.

But every now and then, I still think of her.

Not with longing.

But with a quiet kind of apology.

I saw her once, from a distance. She was walking through a bookstore in Lahore, laughing with someone else.

She looked okay. Better, even.

And that’s when I realized:

I was never the love of her life.

I was the lesson.

In our culture, we rarely admit when we’re the ones who did the hurting. We bury it under masculinity, ego, and excuses. But the truth is, sometimes being a man means owning the pain you caused—and making sure you never cause it again.

I may never get to say this to her face,

but if somehow these words ever reach her—

I was wrong.

You deserved better.

NOTE:

Writing this wasn’t easy.

It’s uncomfortable to admit when we’ve been the cause of someone else’s pain—especially in a culture where vulnerability is often seen as weakness.

But I believe healing starts with honesty, even if that honesty makes us feel small.

If you’ve ever been the “villain” in someone’s story—or the one who’s been hurt—know that you’re not alone. Growth is messy, and forgiveness isn’t always about forgetting; sometimes it’s about understanding.

Thank you for reading. If this story resonated with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts or experiences. Let’s create space for these conversations—because every story matters.