My first boyfriend strung me along for 18 months until I became nothing but an emotional punching bag for him—which, ha, cool. Call him The Worst. Wait outside his door even after he’d slam it shut. Tell myself to hold on just a little longer; something’ll change, I just know it. Then one day, he opened the door and found me walking away. “Let’s try again,” but I was already so far gone.

—

After The Worst came someone promising, barreling into my life like a great, big breeze, and I think, I can do this again.
Then he stopped calling. Found out his ex-girlfriend was ready to get back together, and all it took was a phone call. I’d been runner up this whole time.

Years later, he still calls every now and then to tell me he regrets fucking it up. I'm so sorry, I don't know how to respond, because I don't really care to anymore.

—

Then there was someone else: an intellectual by the very definition. Five months in, I realized I didn’t want to be with him anymore. He used to show me photos of a model he once photographed. A girl he swore was into him. Pulled up a lingerie shot, “Look!” I was folding laundry and frankly didn’t care. He moved his cursor over her breasts, “Look at her boobs.” I asked him what’s the point, and he had none.

We broke up some weeks later. I was so relieved.

Half a year passed, and he reached out and wanted to rekindle. I asked him what’s the point, and he had none.

—
Then came that one guy. Poised and clean and my very first taste of casual dating. Except it was never casual for me, and I didn’t know how deluded I was until about a year later. He was my one of one. I was his one of 20.

We stopped talking and then one day, out of the blue, I get a hey you in the city? text. Shortly after, I get an idea. Get to his apartment, kiss him hello. Decline his invite for a shower with a smile. While he’s in the bathroom, I have a look around his room. Framed photos of him and that girl I’ve seen everywhere. “We’re just friends,” he told me last year. “I swear, she’s nothing. I just want you.”

His phone vibrates on his desk, and I can’t make this up, it’s a message from that very Her. Bright red heart emoji, i’ll call you tomorrow. I get the feeling that she has no idea about me, or them, or anyone. He comes back all dripping wet and salty with libido. Grippy hands, tries to kiss me. I leave, telling him I have to feed a cat I don’t have.

A year later, he invites me up to some rooftop party, how very on-brand, and I forget to reply.

—

My friends say me and this really tall dude would be cute together. I shrug, sure.

After a night of drinking, after months of silly flirtations: I let him take me home. The whole walk back to his place, we’re holding hands all sweet and giddy, and then he tells me he’s hung up on this girl from work. “I’m in love with her, but I don’t think she loves me back,” he dribbles like I’m his therapist. I’m so bewildered, I go back to my place instead.

We have the same friends, so six months go by, and it’s just me dodging him at random bars. He comes up to me one night and asks how I’ve been. Peppers me with compliments. Tries to butter me up, but to be honest, I would rather bore myself to death with this glass of gin that's just all melted ice right now. Then he says, “I’ve always wondered why we never got together.” I blink. “Huh. Dunno,” I say and turn back to my empty glass.

At the end of the year, he shows up on my doorstep and tells me he loves me. LOVES ME. I can’t help it, I laugh and close the door.