Swear I’m Learning… Eventually

it started in the middle of the world shutting down.

summer.

houseparty app.

i clicked into a room like it was nothing —

but it turned into everything.

his voice was the first thing that made me pause.

he spoke like he knew things. not in an arrogant way.

more like… practiced.

he talked about how he treats women,

how he plans dates,

and god, my naive little brain lit up like

finally.

that night he messaged me a simple

“hey.”

and my stomach flipped.

i was 20. he told me he was 29, turning 30.

i lied to my friends and said 26.

i knew it was weird, i just didn’t want to believe it.

our first date?

he paid. we kissed.

we got sandwiches after the movie, and i floated the whole way home.

he asked me to be his girl over the phone.

i said yes. he told me he cut off all his “hoes” for me.

that line made me feel chosen.

(looking back, ew.)

the summer was a dream.

dates. playlists. deep convos at night.

he even recreated a date we once talked about —

my heart was gone.

then came fall.

i invited him over while my mom was out.

we were watching a movie, door closed,

and suddenly —

boom.

my mom walked in.

chaos. yelling. crying.

i ran away to my best friend’s house for a week.

(a routine i’d repeat more than once.)

some red flags don’t wave.

they whisper.

and i kept silencing them.

winter.

snuck out to see him.

he made me climb in through his bedroom window

because he “didn’t want to wake his mom.”

you’re 30, sir.

i felt dirty.

he apologized. i forgave. repeat.

christmas came.

i was invited to spend it with his sisters (one my age — yikes).

he didn’t even have a license, so his friend picked me up.

we wore matching pjs.

it was cute.

but i was already feeling off.

fights started.

little things.

then big things.

spring break.

i wasn’t in school anymore — i dropped out.

planned a party at my dad’s house while he was out of the country.

drinks, snacks, weed, music —

vibes were perfect.

until they weren’t.

i told everyone the last bus was at 9:45.

they didn’t listen.

they missed it.

i was mad.

some friends flipped on me.

i spiraled.

locked myself in my dad’s room crying,

popped some pills out of panic and pain.

not proud.

my boyfriend called my best friend.

then called my mom.

i ended up at a clinic.

next day i was home.

wrecked.

my “best friend” told others about his real age.

one friend told me:

“he groomed you.”

i didn’t feel groomed.

but that word planted a seed.

something felt sick in my stomach.

he got mad when i told him.

angry that i’d even consider that.

but the cracks were showing.

summer again.

one year anniversary.

we planned a hotel night.

i told him i was a virgin when we first started.

he said, “i don’t care.”

but now it mattered.

he set the room up cute — lights, starbursts (not flowers — he remembered).

we had sex.

it wasn’t long.

but it was my first.

i felt weirdly empty.

sad and happy.

torn.

later that night, we watched old Batman movies.

i said i loved old stuff,

and he looked at me and said,

“you like old things… like me. or is it daddy issues?”

i should’ve left that night.

then came the party.

he invited me.

i brought my best friend for support.

i walked in and felt eyes.

stares.

whispers.

“she looks young.”

“why does he always go for girls like that?”

panic attack.

full blown.

couldn’t breathe.

my best friend held my hand, and i crushed it.

he tried to help, but i only wanted her.

that hurt his ego.

he got mad.

i left.

he called me the next day.

i tried explaining the anxiety, the stares, the way people looked at me.

he said, “no one thought that. you’re overreacting.”

gaslighting. again.

then his mom said it too:

“she looks young.”

i told him that hurt me.

he dismissed me. again.

a month after our anniversary, we fought again.

i said, “maybe we need a break.”

he said, “we don’t need one.”

we took it anyway.

and yeah.

i pulled a Ross from Friends.

“we were on a break.”

i hooked up with someone i met at a club.

i felt guilty.

but it told me everything i needed to know.

a few days later, i ended things.

on the phone.

he cried.

i didn’t.

we kept messing around a little after.

but the energy shifted.

he wasn’t gentle anymore.

it felt like he didn’t see me as a person.

just… something to use.

a few months later, i found out

he’d been flirting with his young coworkers the whole time.

am i surprised?

not really.

he knew i was a virgin.

he knew i was young.

he knew i didn’t know better.

and he used that.

but here’s the thing.

i know better now.

⸻

Lesson:

sometimes, what feels like love is just validation in disguise.

and sometimes, the ones who say “i’d never hurt you”

are the ones who already have.

protect your softness.

listen to the quiet red flags.

being wanted ≠ being respected.

i was never too much.

I didn’t lose my virginity that night, but I definitely lost a part of myself I wasn’t ready to give away.

It started with a guy I went to high school with—a friend, or so I thought. Out of nowhere, he started flirting with me, sending those bold, borderline-icky sexual texts. You know the kind: “You looked good today 👀” followed by something way too detailed about what he’d do if we were alone. I never shut it down. Honestly? I liked the attention, even when it made me uncomfortable. That’s the part I didn’t want to admit—I liked being wanted, even by the wrong people.

One day, I called him while I was working, lowkey hoping he’d bring me food. He told me to meet him at a basketball court. So I did. And of course—pattern unlocked—I was the only girl there. I always end up being the only girl around a bunch of guys like I’ve glitched into some bad dating sim.

We left and went to McDonald’s. Randomly, he told me to sit on his lap while we waited for the food. And yeah… I did it. And yes, I felt something poking. Should I have gotten up? Probably. Did I? No. We weren’t even dating, but people were definitely staring like we were. I think I liked that, too.

Later that night, on my way home (still on a curfew), he texted:

“Come see me. I want you.”

I was shocked. Like, you want me?

But then I saw I had five missed calls from my mom and snapped back to reality. I went home instead. That should’ve been the end of the story.

But a few days—maybe weeks—later, he texted again late at night:

“You should come over.”

Why did I say yes? I honestly can’t even remember. I just did.

I snuck out of my house, took the bus, and walked up to his back door like I was starring in a scene I didn’t even audition for. His room was… decent. Not gross, but not clean enough to feel entirely safe either. I sat on the edge of his bed, nerves crawling up my spine. I had only kissed someone before—nothing more.

We started kissing. It felt weird. I stopped.

Then suddenly, he was taking off his pants.

And in my head I thought, Welp… guess this is happening.

So, I gave him oral. My first time. I had no clue what I was doing, but I just… went with it. Too nervous to stop. Too embarrassed to ask questions.

Then his little brother started banging on the door like he was the moral police:

“What are you doing in there?”

I wanted to dissolve into the floor.

About 10–15 minutes later, it was over.

He stood up, cleaned himself off, handed me a towel—like this was some kind of motel situation.

No kiss. No eye contact. Just:

“Alright, I’ll walk you out.”

Back door again. Cold outside. Colder inside.

I walked to the bus stop feeling gross. Confused. Like I’d just handed over a piece of myself for a moment that didn’t even feel like mine.

I called my cousin.

“I feel like a whore,” I said.

She told me it was fine. Normal, even. She made a joke to lighten the mood, and I laughed. But deep down, I didn’t feel okay.

We still talked after that, but it was never the same. Eventually, I found out he did the exact same thing to one of my friends. Same lines. Same routine. Like we were characters in a copy-paste hookup blueprint. I wasn’t special—I was just next.

I still see him on my Instagram FYP sometimes.

He’s trying to be a “big shot” now.

Good for him, I guess.

I’m not mad anymore. Just… noted.

That was the first time I said yes when I should’ve paused long enough to ask myself “why?”

⸻

Lesson?

Turns out, you don’t need alcohol or weed to make messy choices. Sometimes all it takes is a fragile ego, a late-night text, and a little loneliness disguised as confidence.

If you ever find yourself giving someone head while their little sibling is knocking on the door—ask yourself:

Is this the self-love era I manifested, or am I just bored and emotionally dehydrated?

Still, shoutout to my younger self for living through it.

Some mistakes don’t need to be regretted—

I’m 23, still making decisions that end in late-night overthinking and regret smoothies.

This isn’t a love story. It’s more like a cautionary tale told through blurry memories, unread texts, and “why did I say that?” moments.

I’ve kissed red flags. Dated delusions. Mistook chaos for chemistry.

And for some reason, I decided to write it all down — not because I’m proud, but because someone’s gotta laugh (or cry) with me.