When the Tea Grows Cold, I Stay Warm

The selfishness of a man will never cease to amaze me. 

In February, I met a guy. A handsome guy that I could have judged, but gave a chance to anyway. Even when my mother, brother, and grandmother spat in distaste, I gave him a chance. Because they were judging him based on where he was from and what he looked like. They didn't know who he was, and I didn't, either. It didn't seem fair to reject someone based solely on a life that he was born into.

Here we are just a few months later, and he did end up crushing me. Not in the way that they thought he would, though sometimes, I wonder if I'd cry less if he did. If he'd cheated, or something. Because then maybe the pain would be justified. I can feel my eyes darkening as my mind goes there. And I don't want it to. Long ago, I saved myself from such a wretched outlook--but I can feel myself slowly slipping back. Because I simply don't understand. Have I been unreasonable? To ask for the love that I was offered be shown to me?

I mean, if you take an orphan from their foster home, go through the legal troubles of calling them yours—why must they still beg to be treated like your child? Why bring in someone and promise them love... but be unwilling to give them that love. A man will approach a woman, express interest, pursue, and make her feel chosen, only for her to end up having to beg for the love she was promised.

That is what I'm dealing with now. Of the men I've written about, this one seems to be the most infuriating. This one’s the most infuriating—not because he doesn’t love me, but because he does. And still chooses comfort over effort. The truth is, he loves  me, but he loves himself and the comfort of being loved without having to work for it a lot more. If he truly valued my love, he would do anything to keep me from taking it away. But I haven't shown him that that's an option, and I suppose that's why he's gotten so comfortable with not even giving me the bare minimum. 

I've dealt with a narcissist, I've dealt with a player, but none of those tears felt as painful as the ones I'm faced with now. And I know, given the gravity of words previously written, that's hard to believe... but for some reason this is killing me.

I woke up early today—at four A.M. on the dot. I had my morning tea with rose, and black goji berries, and orange peels. I did my skincare, got ready for the gym. and did a little yoga in my bedroom; little candles lit around the room and music blowing from my television. But no matter how much care I take of myself and my body, I am still left feeling unnurtured and unfulfilled. So, I danced around my room to waste time and forget about it. 

Even after all that, there was still an hour left until the bus came. I sat down and waited with my hair neatly brushed and lips softly glossed, fingers coiling around each other like the fringed ringlets of my hair and feet quietly dancing against the carpet. There were probably a million and one mice waiting with me, holding my toes through the floorboards and sniffling through the vents. Unlike him, they show up.

Oh, how I envy the little mice, dressed under serenity, floating between cosmos like stars. The mice have beautifully written patience sewn into the skyline and laced at the edge of my feet.

But in the end, the mice waited. They always waited and listened. They were all I really had for comfort. When I was scared, or sad--or even when I was upset. They always knew what to say, which didn't have to be anything at all. And they're just little mice, so that's all they really had to offer. Silence. Silence, but I had their presence--so I never had to doubt whether they had lent me their ears or not. 

That's all I ever really wanted my boyfriend to do. Listen to my problems, but not force himself to. The only barrier between me and getting what I want is him truthfully loving every bit of me. Until he loves me fully, he won’t feel the need to prove it. Because as long as I love him, he’s already won.

That’s what mattered. And I was still waiting

And I know that the birds waited, too. I hadn't heard a chirp all morning, neither upon my awakening nor as I dressed, and even with the sky filling to an unmistakable pale and oblique blue—the sun waited too. Behind the clouds, tucked behind bangs of trees, the sun was in as little of a rush as I was. Together, all of us waited. We waited until the mice retreated, and as the mice slipped away, the birds began their symphony, peeling the sun from its loosely wrapped chignon.

Then there was just me… painted like a doll, hollow like a casket. With my sandy red hair bumped at the ends, and my bimbo-pink lipgloss. Just me and my flip-flops, champagne glitter bubbled on the strap, and leggings, thighs bouncing with impatience and suffering. Because I was ready to go, yet I had gotten up so early that it was too late to retreat back to bed. I remained jittery until the very last second, shoved my laptop into my bag, and flopped down the stairs. The wind blew as the front door opened, and with it, I left. 

Walking five minutes to the bus stop, the wind thumbed through my hair like the ghost of a lover—comforting, a touch I didn't know I needed. But I did, and as I reached the stop, I wallowed in it. I wallowed in the humming breaths of wind until my soul couldn't take it any longer. I pulled out my phone and stared at it, as though something was bound to materialize in the palm of my hand. But it was blank. He hadn't called. He hadn't texted...and the bus came before all of that.

And what baffles me most—or I suppose, what draws the most curiosity from me—is how this very boy who essentially promised me the gold-drizzled diamond of love could fail in such a painful manner. I felt so valued in the beginning. 

He would call me after work, and he worked odd hours, so that meant more. But then he lost his job, and I lost him. 

It doesn't make sense. You say you do nothing but sit at home, yet I have not heard your voice in days? We used to be able to sit on the phone, nothing to share but our breaths. And that was enough. What do I do when I have a bad day? Who can I talk to, if not you?

I was closer to you when life forced me farther from you, and that leaves a cold feeling against my spirit. It makes me childish, selfish even. It's something he welcomed into my life when he told me he loved me. How could you bring in this child just to abandon it, I ask? Curiously weighted, because I simply don't understand.

To sit in the face of a woman, to have her croak her damnedest words, crying displeasure and defeat. I told him once--could barely find words that he would understand... "Usually, when there's distance between you and the person you love, you try to communicate to make up for it. But you don't, and that's why I don't believe you when you say you care about me. Sure, you don't cheat. But you definitely don't love me." She cried—only for you to shrug and brush it away. That is sinister. 

And why do you push it aside? Because it's not important. Because you are satisfied, and because you know she loves you deeply. Even if she doesn't say it, her desperation paints that truth. Her eyes, as they plead attention, are swallowed in it. She drowns in it, so much so she doesn't even have to breathe to prove it.

Yet today, as I sit here in my lotus-covered room, drenched in melted wax—the green cube softening above a soft tea-candled flame—I bask beneath the musky glory, back plastered against a satin blue pillow, legs lifted to form a desk for my laptop, and breaths just soft enough to blow tiny bubbles with my flavorless gum. I have about five pieces in my mouth. Sugar-free xylitol gum. Four pieces grape flavor, one piece mint. I kept throwing back the purple squares, hoping with quantity would come sustainability, hoping the flavor would stay. It didn't, and still I keep on chewing.

I popped the first piece into my mouth a few hours ago while hunkering around my room, tripping over clothes, hangers, and dumbbells. Snatching bits of trash and jewelry lying about. It was long overdue for a bedroom cleaning, and since I had just gotten a dresser today, I told myself: be productive. To declutter. Make space for what you have, get rid of what you don't need. And I didn't need gum, but the pack lay flat in a sea of garbage, and my mouth was bored, so I was tempted. Just a mere piece of gum. But I ate it, and after forcing a dress on a hanger—I mindlessly popped another. Because my phone was in the kitchen charging, and I had to clean my room, and put together my dresser, and hang clothes, and vacuum... Gum.

Because I couldn’t finish assembling a dresser if clothes were strung along the room, grabbing at my ankles. And I couldn’t put clothes away with garbage crawling across the floor. Chew. But I did it. Three hours and a hefty slab of gum later, the room is clean, my floor is clear. It smells like pearls of jasmine and gilded lilies; the air is fresh, I can breathe. But three hours have passed, and my jaws are sore. I chew, masseters swelling—bluing like the solemn air blowing into my cheeks. I have so much to say, but instead, my mouth persists, glued to gum, gummed to a bland chew. Three hours—the room clean and smelling brand new. Three hours—my breath fresh, but still waiting for him. If I couldn’t get his words, I’d settle for a clean floor and a jaw too sore to cry. Still the phone waits in the kitchen on the sticky counter, silent and cruel. I have a lot to say. I am upset, but I bite my tongue. The gum stayed, but the flavor didn't. Because I'm still waiting for him.

I have become one of those people. One of those people who, when trusted with a heart, shatters it. I have become one of those people who, with the face of a babe—innocent and sweet—renders only pain and suffering to others. I have become exactly who I've always hated, betraying the heart of the man I love.I’ve always hated cheaters. Women who stray. But now? I get it. I understand how it happens. Not because I’m evil. Because I was starving. Because I am spoiled. Because I am an ugly Aphrodite gripping any fallen eye dear to my chest. With all to offer is all there is to grip; a sacrifice must be made, and a heart must be broken. My karma will renew, and I shall wait. The last heartbreak wasn't consequence enough—I out-selfished Shylock. I took my mound—my slab of flesh. Sworn. Promised. I ate it, but refuse to be hidden. Only presented and shown off.

Showcased. Yes, my attention, my eyes, my love wandered elsewhere. Because to love me is to give me what I want. And he didn't give me what I wanted… So why not go to another who can?

I know that I am selfish. I know that I had options. If I were starving, why not learn to eat alone? Well... I don't want to wipe my tears anymore. I'm tired of being alone. He knew this. Yes, I am wrong, but I am human, too. I will defend myself. 

If my body remains sacred, a temple held solely for him, then it isn't betrayal. He knows how much my mouth aches to speak. He knows it when I beg him to talk to me. He must know that if he isn't talking to me--a woman who values words--then someone else is. If he can only offer his body, why do I need to still give him my soul? He is emotionally braindead. He admitted it to me. He loves me, but I will never see that side of him... I told him it was important to me. To think I will make a sacrifice when you refuse, to me, is betrayal. He cheated when he refused to love me and left me alone, begging for comfort.

My room is quiet. Rain falls down my window, and as much as I cherish this weather, I must look away. I must cover my mirrors. The window is too much like me. Too much of a reflection. It's horrific to sit among three. I can't keep crying like this. I can't keep on with this puff and blow, push and pull, run and chase kind of situation. 

My goodness, I love him, but it is torture.

He cheated first.

Not with a body, but with absence.

He cheated when he stopped trying, though looking back, he never did much of. He cheated when he stripped me with words, then left me naked in silence. When he said he couldn't be available for me mentally, but I had to reduce myself and be his woman. 

Yes, my loyalty wandered. Slowly, at first. I was so hungry, and he refused to feed me. I wanted to talk, to be heard, and when that didn’t happen at home, I cracked the door open to someone else. All because I was tired of begging to speak with my boyfriend...

But at least I never gave up my tongue. Just the lips. We just spoke. The thing I was begging to do. I got my fix. Talked to someone else because my boyfriend didn't want to.  And I knew that it was wrong while I was doing it. Because the guy had been interested in me for years. Since I was in high school, actually. It was our first time meeting in person, though we were best friends while I was away for college for a few years and talked consistently. He always respected me and the distance. He always waited for me--gave me advice on other guys all while secretly wanting to be with me. 

And I used that to my advantage once I'd moved back and gotten my first real boyfriend--the one that I write about--after going ghost for almost two years. But he was in his twenties when we met, and I was fifteen. I will never be with this man. I've grown into my mind now--and no matter how introspective our conversations are--I was just a girl when he pursued me.

But I am still in the wrong, because while knowing this, as I am now--an adult--I let him take me out. Because I needed to talk to someone, and since I was a girl, he was always willing to talk. Just talk. It was only once, anyway, and I don't think I'll do it again. Because like I said, that isn't the kind of person I should be around. And if I have to chase someone else’s voice just to feel seen, then maybe I don’t have a boyfriend—I just have a man taking up space in my life

This is when I realized that I am more than a narcissist. But that's not important today. I can admit my faults, but this isn’t about guilt. It’s about heartbreak and grief. About what I’ve lost and craved, not just what I’ve done.

I am trapped in such a tragic love. Because I just can't leave him. I love him... but I hate almost everything about him. I tried to tie myself to him like an anchor--a means of salvation. But he sank us both.

He isn't romantic. No dates, no time together... we take pictures, but he won't post them. I can, but he won't. Because we know what burns between us, no one else. That's what he says, just in a less thoughtful way. I save face just as much as I save my feelings. 

He also has no strive. No passion. I keep finding men like this. Men who have no plans or thoughts for the future. Aren't in school, but not looking to make any money. How will we start a family, like this? I dare you to speak of a traditional home when I bust my ass for a degree. What tradition will we uphold when I’m the only one working—on a pink, feminine salary? Better yet, what tradition will we uphold without emotional commitment and a ring? I'll talk about that later. 

Since he's lost his job, he sits around. Doesn't rush to figure something out. But, I mean, we are still young. You see, I save him, too. So many excuses for a man who wouldn't know what to say if I were the bum in the situation. 

But I won't deal with it for much longer. To be with a man like this sucks. I am a student. I don't work--I quit my job months ago. It was too much to handle at my new school. But he isn't in school. He lives twenty minutes away, doesn't drive so we can't see each other, and now; doesn't work. He just drifts—smoking, scrolling, surviving--never thinking, planning, or doing. He said he didn't want to ever get married. And for me, that's a non-negotiable. But he said that he just didn't want his money stolen. I think that he is just uneducated on the matter. He said that we're still young. His thoughts on marriage may change. But I knew, that day, that things with us were doomed.

Still, I trek on. Because I love him, and must hold on to him for as long as I can. 

I always sigh in relief that we are so close yet so far. Since neither of us drive, we don't see each other much. To me, it feels like a very antique relationship. Something fragile and nostalgic. Two distant lovers... Only, he isn't romantic. So something that could be so meaningful and beautiful is void and transparent. No communication, no affection.

But again, I am relieved with this. It will be easier to move on that way. I'm only holding on to him until the next person comes along. And then, I can just cut communication. It's a shitty thing to do, but I forgave myself for it already. I poured my heart out to this man, told him I couldn't feel his love, and was greeted with a one word response--who gives a fuck if he's used a little bit. He already said he isn't an emotional guy. He will never open up and express himself, he won't be available for me in that way... I don't really think he'll care once I leave. So, no, I don't care if it'll hurt him. I don't think it will.

He doesn't think I'll leave. He said it himself. He doesn't trip when I block. But I've already made my mind up on that. Yes, I still cry for his attention, yes I still love him. But I am also not a complete idiot. A fool, I agree, because I will still be the one hurting in the end--but not completely. This man will never give me the life I want. He will never be able to show me he loves me, even though he knows how simple it is to do. He will never marry me, or be able to offer me a stable life. Why would I stay long term? This, for now, is fun and play. A painful game, but I promise won't settle for long.