A love story. No happy endings.

Is there something inherently wrong with me because I don't want a romantic relationship? Am I flawed? Am I defective? Did I permanently ruin my desire for a domestic life when I fucked my way through my early twenties? I wanted it with HIM, after all; J, I'll call him, the only man to ever hold joint ownership of my soul. The build up lasted for two years, and the resulting secret relationship, consisting of sneaky fucking and raging tempers, lasted for three more. I was 19 when I first saw him, instantly enamored, and the fire burned eternally inside of me from that very moment. It started innocently enough. Working at a record store, our group of friends slowly melting together, our lives intertwining, my crush strengthening with age. I became emboldened when I started drinking, flirting heavily and making it clear that I wasn't teasing anymore. And we fucked the first time in my bed while my best friend covered her ears, J's brother leading her away so they wouldn't hear their two friends taking their relationship to that dangerous place.

And so it went. The secret that wasn't secret, the worst kept secret around. My love and desire for him made me irrational, spiteful, jealous, territorial. He was only mine for hours at a time, and then he was off, as if I was just part of a dream he'd been having. 3, 2, 1, wake up, J! It was so easy for him. I scowled at him in public and pushed aside fantasies of forever sharing my sacred bed with him, the one man with whom I could comfortably and happily sleep. He looked right through me. I was glass. I was ice. I was invisible. I was cold.

The home-wrecking fantasies grew as he cycled through women. I smiled with secret satisfaction at these poor girls who were always unsuspecting, feeling delight knowing that he would crawl to me if I feigned disinterest. It was a vile, diseased parody of love that pumped through my veins. Bad decisions consumed me. Binge drinking with friends always gave me an excuse to feel every emotion so intensely that I could taste each word I spoke, sharp and metallic. Fights, arguments, bickering, throwing my phone against a wall and screaming. It was everything I had but nothing I wanted. I cried into my pillows. I begged him to care. Please, J, I need you. I need you to love me right now. I need you. Please be here for me.

When it ended, I didn't know it was really over. It faded, I met my ex-boyfriend, and I pushed myself to want something substantial. I pushed too hard, even when the desire wasn't truly present. I spent over two years pretending, looking for ways out. When I left, I felt free, wished I could feel that desire again, the same desire I felt when I was with J. But it never came. Four years later, I've loved one person. Someone too far away for that love to matter. Someone who can't leave, and I can't leave. And the thought of trying to find someone is daunting. I still close my eyes and dream of J. The love that fucked me up, maybe forever.

I just may be flawed after all.