Chapter 2 | Entry Fifteen

"Some people reset the standard for everyone else, not because they were perfect, but because they showed you what it feels like when your whole body says yes."

I'm sitting in my car outside my house, engine off, hands still on the steering wheel.

The wine bottle he gave me is in the passenger seat, the glass catching the glow from the streetlight above. Through the windshield, I can see the warm light from my living room window that I left on, the familiar shape of home waiting for me.

But I don't want to go inside yet.

Because once I walk through that door, once I set this bottle on the counter and wash my face and change into pajamas, I'll have to admit what I already know.

I can hear the faint hum of traffic from the main road. A dog barking somewhere in the distance. The tick-tick-tick of my engine cooling down.

I look up through the windshield at the sky I can't see the moon tonight, just clouds and the darkness of night.

And I whisper into the silence: "I don't know how to stop wanting him."

The truth settles over me like a weight.

I've been comparing everyone to him.

Every single one.

Grocery store guy with his easy compliments and surface-level charm, he wasn't him. He looked at my sparkle and thought that was all of me, thought a pretty smile and a quick wit were the whole story. But the sun, he looked at me like he could see through skin, like he was reading something written in a language only he understood. I remember the first time he really SAW me. I'd said something vulnerable, something I usually keep hidden. He stopped what he was doing, turned to face me fully, and responded, confirming exactly what I must have felt, then he kissed me, and my whole body went still.

Country club guy with his therapy language and spiritual awareness, he wasn't him either. He could go deep, could talk about presence and shadow work and father wounds. But the sun, he didn't just talk about depth, he LIVED there. I remember sitting on a bench one night, both of us quiet, watching the sky turn deep purple. The way we talked about our lives, our similarities, the bitterness of goodbyes, I felt KNOWN. Not analyzed. Not figured out. Just...seen in a way that made me feel like I could finally exhale.

Winery guy with his thoughtful gestures and emotional intelligence, he wasn't him. He remembered my favorite dessert, orchestrated a birthday surprise, asked good questions. But the sun, he didn't have to orchestrate anything. His presence WAS the gift. And God, the gifts he gave me, the most incredible, thoughtful things that reminded him of me, things that showed he was paying attention to who I actually was. But even those weren't what made the difference. It was the way he existed in the world. The way being near him felt like coming home to myself.

And the way my body responded to him.

The way my body responded.

No one else has ever made me feel that alive. That electric. That fully present in my own skin.

With him, my whole body said YES. Not the polite yes of someone trying to talk themselves into wanting something. But the deep, cellular, undeniable YES that comes from somewhere beyond thought or reason.

The kind of yes that makes you forget how to breathe.

The kind of yes that wakes up every nerve ending and says this, THIS is what it's supposed to feel like.

And I'm so frustrated with myself for this.

I don't WANT to be the woman who's waiting. I don't want to give him this much power when he's not even choosing me. I don't want to be stuck on someone who saw me clearly and still stepped away.

But here I am.

Measuring every conversation against the way he listened, not just to my words, but to what I wasn't saying. Measuring every touch against the way my body came alive when he was near. Measuring every moment of connection against the way he SAW me, really saw me, and wasn't afraid.

It's not fair.

It's not fair that he gets to be the standard when he's not even here. It's not fair that I can't just DECIDE to want someone else, someone available, someone who's actually choosing me.

I've been trying so hard to move forward. Going on dates. Staying open. Giving people chances. Telling myself that maybe I just need to be patient, maybe chemistry grows, maybe I'm being too picky or too damaged or too stuck in fantasy.

But tonight, sitting across from a good man who checked every box, I finally had to face it:

I don't want someone who checks boxes.

I want HIM.

And it breaks me that I want him.

It breaks me that my body remembers what it felt like to be with someone who made me feel that seen, that alive, that REAL. That I can still feel the heat of his presence, the way the air changed when he was near, like everything got warmer and more vivid and more possible.

I don't know

It breaks me that he showed me what it feels like when someone meets you at your depth AND lights you up, and then he left me with that knowledge and no way to un-know it.

Because now everyone else feels like a compromise.

And I don't know what to do with that.

I can't make myself want someone I don't want. I can't force chemistry that isn't there. I can't pretend that "good on paper" is enough when my body is screaming NO.

But I also can't keep running from this grief into the arms of men who can't hold me.

I can't keep using dates as a distraction from what I'm actually feeling. I can't keep trying to prove I'm over him by forcing myself to want someone else.

So where does that leave me?

I don't want to be alone.

But I can't be with someone when my whole body is somewhere else.

Maybe the truth I'm not ready to face yet is this:

I need to stop trying to force myself into relationships that don't feel right just to prove I'm moving on. I need to stop going on dates like I'm checking items off a list, hoping one of them will finally make me forget.

Maybe I need to just...stop.

Stop trying. Stop forcing. Stop performing the role of woman-who-is-healing-and-moving-forward.

Maybe I need to actually BE alone for a while. Not the kind of alone where I'm still looking, still hoping, still measuring everyone against him.

But the kind of alone where I'm not looking at all.

And that terrifies me.

Where I'm just...feeling.

Feeling the loss. Feeling the longing. Feeling what it's like to want someone and know I can't have them and let that be okay.

Because what if I stop looking and no one ever makes me feel that way again? What if the sun, he was it, the one person who could see me AND want me AND make my body come alive, and I've already lost him?

What if being truly alone means admitting that I might never find that combination again?

What if it means sitting with the grief of that loss instead of running from it?

But maybe that's exactly what I need to do.

Maybe I need to stop running.

Maybe I need to let this grief teach me what I actually need, instead of trying to find it in someone else before I even know what I'm looking for.

Being truly alone would mean deleting the dating apps. Stopping the performance of availability. Not saying yes to coffee dates or dinner invitations just because someone seems nice or because I'm afraid of what it means if I stop trying.

It would mean sitting in my home on Friday nights without plans, without the distraction of getting ready for someone, without the hope that maybe this time will be different.

It would mean facing the fact that I'm not over him. That I might not BE over him for a long time. That healing isn't linear and sometimes moving forward means standing completely still.

It would mean trusting that being alone is better than being with someone who doesn't make my whole body say yes.

And I don't know if I'm ready for that yet.

But I know I can't keep doing this.

I can't keep going through the motions with men who don't make my body say yes, just because I'm afraid of what it means if I stop.

I'm tired.

Tired of trying to talk myself into wanting someone. Tired of sitting across from good men and feeling nothing and then driving home feeling guilty about feeling nothing. Tired of performing interest, performing openness, performing the role of woman-who-gives-everyone-a-fair-chance.

Tired of feeling guilty for not being able to choose the good ones.

Tired of running from the grief of wanting someone who doesn't choose me.

But most of all, I'm tired of being angry at myself for still feeling this.

Tired of the way I catch myself looking for him in crowds, in coffee shops. Tired of the way my heart jumps when I see a car like his.

Because maybe the feeling isn't the problem.

Maybe the problem is that I keep trying to force myself past it instead of letting it teach me something.

Maybe the lesson is that some people change you. They show you what's possible, what you're capable of feeling, what it's like when someone truly sees you. And even if they don't stay, even if they walk away, that knowledge doesn't leave.

Maybe I'm not supposed to get over him quickly.

Maybe I'm supposed to honor what we had, what I felt, by not settling for less.

Maybe it's my body's way of protecting me from choosing something that isn't right.

I look up through the windshield again, searching for the moon through the clouds.

"Help me know the difference," I whisper. "Between waiting and honoring what I know. Between being stuck and doing the work. Between holding on and holding space for something real."

The clouds shift slightly, and for just a moment, I can see a sliver of light behind them.

Not the full moon. Just a hint of her, a crescent moon.

But it's enough, it's filled with love.

It grieves me that even when I find what I've been asking for, it's still not enough.

But I also know this:

I can't lie to myself anymore.

I can't pretend to feel something I don't feel just because it would be easier or safer or smarter.

I can't choose someone with my mind when my body is silent.

Because I've spent too long ignoring what my body knows.

I remember the years I spent performing desire I didn't feel. Kissing men I didn't want to kiss because I thought I should want them. Letting hands touch me that made my skin crawl because I was trying to be the woman who could receive affection without conditions. Smiling through dates that felt like endurance tests because I was afraid that being picky meant being broken.

I remember the way I used to override my body's NO with my mind's SHOULD. The way I'd talk myself into second dates, third dates, relationships that felt wrong from the beginning because everyone else thought he was great and maybe I was just being difficult.

I remember the heaviness of that. The way it made me feel like I was disappearing. Like I was performing a role in someone else's story instead of living my own.

And I won't do that anymore.

Not even for a good man.

Not even for the right man on paper.

Not even to prove I'm healed enough to choose healthy.

My body knows what it knows.

And right now, it's telling me the truth.

It's telling me that chemistry matters. That being seen matters. That feeling alive in someone's presence isn't optional, it's essential.

It's telling me that I'd rather be alone than be with someone who doesn't make my whole body say yes.

It's telling me that honoring what I felt with the sun, him, even if he's not here, even if he walked away, is more important than forcing myself to feel something I don't feel with someone else.

My body is wise.

She's been trying to protect me all along.

And maybe it's time I finally listen.

—Still letting this grief teach me what I need