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A conversation with a retired fuckboy

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A conversation with a retired fuckboy

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It was just him and I, out on the front porch, having a night cap. 

He is my mother’s living proof of “third time’s the charm”, first came the husband who died, second came the abusive narcissist and last came this one. To put it simply a lovely British man who says yes to everything she says, one that can handle her fits of rage and who may swear a little too much but has never raised his voice at her. One that I like to believe would give her the world. He always says that he manifested her—an independent woman with her own children and a joie de vivre. They are like a teenage couple without the excessive PDA, silly and playful. Yet, they also look like they’ve been married for decades, so comfortable together in silence. He adores her so much, he fears he’ll fuck it up.

He always says that when I first met him, I was a “cunt”  but rightfully so. And I know I was, and I didn’t care because I didn’t trust any man around my mother, not after what we went through. But he proved himself over the years and eventually I warmed up to him. To the point that he may be one of the men I trust the most in my life. 

However, he hasn’t always been this tame. He’s had a colourful past, let’s put it that way. A past filled with parties, substances and women. Stories I have promised to not share. They were dark times but I always sense a hint of nostalgia as he recalls them, he knows it was bad but maybe he knows he’ll never feel those types of highs ever again. Many of his past behaviours remind me so much of those of the young men today. Similar stories to the ones my girlfriends and I share with each other with great rage and passion, ones I have analysed and replayed in my head over and over again, asking myself “why the fuck did he do that?”. True head scratchers that have left me confused, baffled by their logic and their sheer audacity. Ones that make you wonder who raised them? Or how could such a lovely mother create such creature? 

So many years between us, yet so many things haven’t changed. No true evolution when it comes to the way many men treat women, making me wonder if true change can happen. Many think that this fear of commitment is an issue that only our generation struggles with but the more I speak to the older generations the more I realise, it was just much easier to cheat back then. 

I sat for a moment, perplexed, before quickly realising the opportunity that I had in front of me—I could gather information to help the girls straight from the source. “Don’t move,” he said as he stood up, “I’ll give you the answers.” He went to the kitchen and poured himself another drink.

Here are 7 things you should know about dating as a girl in your 20 somethings according to a retired fuckboy: 

1. You will get played. Point Blank Period.

As a twenty something woman you will get played no matter how cautious you are. They will flatter, make you laugh, buy you things to get what they want. Even when it may seem genuine sometimes, never be surprised if they 180’d and gave you the same boring excuse. Because many simply do not know what they want, they might mean everything they said in the moment but this could change tomorrow. So the best advice would be to enjoy it whilst it lasts and do not blame yourself too much if they just up and left out of nowhere. 

2. Men only chase women who act like men. 

Women fall for security and men, for challenge. To put it simply, the more detached you are the more they’ll desire you. The more it seems like you hate them and would never give them a chance, the more they’ll pursue. Being thoughtful and cute only works when you’re already locked in, doing too much when you aren’t in a relationship with the man will freak them out. If you do not care to act like a man and don’t care to play games, focus on yourself and maybe a good boy will come along. Patience and kindness will get you nowhere because many young men aren’t ready to receive such things. 

3. Two different worlds. 

Remind yourself that their human experience on Earth is in some ways so different from ours, leading them to react to things differently. They truly sometimes do not view the world or human connections the way we do. What seems moral and right to you may not apply to them. So stop beating yourself up trying to understand why they would do certain things and try to analyse them, because you’ll just end up losing your mind. Let them be and find your peace. They’ll learn in their own time. 

4. If they stop “shagging” you, beware. 

They’re probably not cheating on you, but they probably are. You can have steak and caviar every night but sometimes you just want a burger. Wether he is or not, just know that you can be the most beautiful, intelligent girl and still get fucked over. 

Shag his friend. 

5. Shoot the shot. 

Your rejection rate as a girl in your 20’s are low, because men like their ego stroked. They will most probably go for you just because you were ballsy and made them feel special enough that as a young woman you made the first move. 

Talk to him. 

6. If he over compliments you, tell him to fuck off. 

Exactly that. (I guess love-bombing wasn’t a term at the time yet but it’s been around forever. So STOP FALLING FOR IT). 

7. Substances and Performative Sex. 

This is for both boys and girls. Doing drugs and expecting to only have wild crazy sex all the time can rob you from the beauty of the mundane. Meaning, living in such high highs all the time will take away the beauty in the small things, having you constantly chase a feeling you can only feel high. Soon enough, you’ll no longer feel gratitude for the warmth of the sun, the lingering smell of lavender or a slow morning with a loved one. Eventually, you will not be able to feel anything anymore, the calmness and the normal will feel unbearable. 

We finished the conversation with, “however you shouldn’t be afraid, never stop yourself because of fear. Yeah, we’re assholes for the most part but don’t let all of us rob you from an experience with an actual decent guy. I know it may be hard to believe sometimes but they’re there, somewhere.” He’s not the most expressive man out there and gave me a very simple conclusion which was “just do you”. 

Everything said here is obviously to be taken with a grain of salt and it was truly a very unserious conversation but in a way it was comforting to know that sometimes, it’s not my fault. As women we are born with built-in guilt in our bones and constantly blaming ourselves for things we seriously have no reason to feel guilty about. If he didn’t like you that much in the end, well he just didn’t like you that much, it wasn’t because you said something weird or because of your lip combo. We can’t be everyone’s cup of tea and that’s okay. There’s nothing to fix or to better, sometimes, it is truly just that. I think the main takeaway I had here is that the more you decentralise your life from men and male attention, the more peace you’ll find in dating. When your entire sense of value isn’t placed in their hands, their leaving or disrespect won’t shake your self-worth. You hold the power. This is something I’ve struggled with ever since I started dating chasing people I probably didn’t even like or who didn’t deserve my attention because I believed I was worth nothing without them. (As someone who tends to resent men, admitting this was really difficult. I hope you can appreciate the honesty.) 

But ironically, the more you do that, the more they come to you. 

Anyways, having had this conversation with a father figure I wish I’d had earlier really helped my case. And for my fatherless or shit father-having ladies out there, I hope it helps you too.  

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia, August 2025

The Quiet Between Us

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The Quiet Between Us

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“So, what was it you didn’t want to tell me?” He asked as we were driving in his father’s car. I started to cry from nervousness and maybe a little bit from embarrassment. I went to the psychiatrist for the first time a couple of days prior. My therapist recommended it; for the first time, he thought it might be necessary. I mean, looking back now, I think it was, too. I had trouble keeping my emotions from bouncing off the walls of my brain. Sleep made me, strangely enough, more tired. I knew I struggled with anxiety, but not like this, not the type that made it feel like my body weighed 1000 pounds, completely paralysing me from doing anything at all. But the one thing that bothered me most was the incessant thoughts of dying. It took over everything. I thought about the peace I would feel if I ended it all and the different ways I could do it without suffering too much. Unlike my teenage years, where I thought about all the ways I could inflict pain on myself, I now just wanted to go away peacefully. I felt like I was already hurting enough. I deserved to go away as fast as possible.

On the other hand, I feared being murdered or killed accidentally; I had to have control over how I went. I felt like I had no control over anything else. I deserved to choose when I would go. No one could take that away from me. So, I stood as far away as possible from the metro tracks in case someone with bad intentions was standing too close to me. I looked behind my back every other minute to make sure no one was trying to stab me. I smoked every cigarette with a deep fear that the one currently burning was the one that was going to give me cancer. 

The cold man with a slight lisp behind the desk looked at me straight in the eyes and calmly said, “You have BPD.” My world came crashing down because this meant dealing with this forever. This meant a constant battle with myself for the rest of my life. He prescribed me a low dosage of epilepsy medication, which apparently has side effects that can help with BPD. I was so upset with myself. I  always struggled with my mental health, and even when my family denied getting me help when I was younger, I achieved plenty of things. I was able to deal with it all, and I may have had issues suppressing certain impulsive decisions and random outbursts, but I was still functioning. Never in a million years did I think I was going to be the one on meds. I never thought it was something someone should be ashamed of, but I just didn’t want to depend on anything to be able to be “normal”. Finding this out on my late father’s birthday was also not helpful either. 

I sat silently for a moment and looked at my fingers. I felt suffocated by my seat belt, and all I wanted to do was jump out of the car. The tears kept coming, and I struggled to find the words to tell him. “Vivi, you can tell me anything. I’m here for you.” But was he going to be? After all, we’ve only been together for three months, and he’s only seen one side of me, the one everybody would like. How do I know he’s not going to leave me on the side of the road the instant he hears that I can think he is the most perfect person in the whole wide world one day and think he’s an absolute monster the next when he does something I didn’t like. Will he still be around when he realises that this means I have abandonment issues, that I’ll act certain ways because I am so scared that he’ll leave me?  How about the times I’ll have my super highs and then suddenly hit my super lows? Will he be able to keep up? 

“I have BPD.” “What’s that?” I gave him a quick rundown of what that meant. I tried my best not to make it sound too scary. He kissed me on the cheek and said I didn’t have to be scared to tell him and that he didn’t see me differently. This relieved me for a second, but some part of me knew that he believed it now, but it might not be the case when he actually experiences it. I promised myself I would do everything to hide this side of me from him, that he didn’t need to see it all. At the time, I saw this as protecting him from me, but was it actually just that fear of abandonment I mentioned earlier? 

The relationship ended five months later, but not because I had done anything. I’m sure it was the case because one of the last things he told me was, “If I had to wait for you to do something wrong to leave you, then that meant I would be with you forever.”

The relationship was a happy one; communication was clear, fights were tamed and respectful, and surprisingly, I had matured a lot and had very few impulsive reactions. I kept my word. It was odd because I was super happy, the happiest I had ever been with someone, but also terribly suffering on my own. I kept most things negative away from him and tried to keep a positive attitude at all times, and then when I went home, I could take the mask off. He could hear it in my voice at times on the phone when I wasn’t feeling well, but I always finished it with, “But don’t worry, I should be fine!”. The suicidal thoughts were incessant; the medication made me sleepy, so sometimes, when we were out together, I was fighting off the fatigue while still trying to stay present. It was a lonely fight like it has always been. Sometimes, I wish I had shared my pain with him more, but I refused to be the one to bring someone down with me. I admitted to him once when we were fighting that I didn’t share it all with him, to which he responded with “Thank you.” From that moment, I understood that he also didn’t want to hear it. It stung a little bit, and I didn’t know why then. I think because deep down, I wish he cared more and he actually wanted to know, but at least he was honest, and I should’ve seen it as a sign that the relationship would not survive for long. My mental health declined as time went on, and the medication didn’t seem to work very well. It came to a point where I found myself sitting in front of the psychiatrist again, balling my eyes out, asking him if my deep desire to die was a normal thought. He told me that no, it was not and that I would really benefit from going to a “retreat” for a few weeks. My heart sank, but I agreed. It was the last resort. I had officially hit rock bottom, and this I was deeply ashamed about. I really didn’t have any control anymore. I was scared to share a space with other mentally ill patients. The first thing I thought about was how self-harm scars so very easily trigger me, and I can’t handle seeing them even in movies. I was so afraid to see other patients with them. I was afraid of being force-fed medication. 

I naturally didn’t tell my boyfriend about this conversation, which I knew he couldn’t handle. 

Every time I hear that one line in Billie Eilish’s What Was I Made For?, “I’m sad again, don’t tell my boyfriend”, I think about this moment right here, comforted and yet deeply disappointed at the realisation that this isn’t an uncommon thing to go through as a woman. 

I missed the call from the “retreat” and ultimately decided not to go. I didn’t go because I was afraid but mainly because I was tired of letting it win. Something in me switched; a calm took over, and I have not spiralled as much as I used to ever since. The thing is, BPD is something that you can’t cure, but with the right tools, you can control it, and it only gets better with practice and time. So once I understood that I truly held the power, this changed everything for me. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I found a lot of my tools when I was “shielding” him from my condition. My fear of losing him forced me to have a grasp on my impulsivity and control over my intense emotions and the words that came out of my mouth. I practised patience when we would take some time from each other, forcing me to sit face to face with my abandonment issues, facing them head-on. When he eventually left for real, I was surprisingly okay. 

It saddens me that it took a man for me to make the effort to make the changes I needed yet I also feel this sense of pride that I am the type of person capable of wanting to better myself out of love and care for somebody else. 

I came to realise that I was too focused on doing what is “right” on my own and didn’t even think that getting support from my partner was an option for me, maybe subconsciously I thought I didn’t deserve it. I think I should’ve opened up a little more and tested the waters, communicated a little clearer still with a little caution. He on the other hand, was probably not ready to be in a relationship serious enough to have deep conversations about mental health or simply didn’t want to.

Now I wonder how it is I am supposed to balance things when I eventually get into another relationship. How do I ask for help and comfort without crossing anyone’s boundaries? Is it possible or even healthy to share everything with your partner? 

Honestly, I truly believe I won’t be able to know until I meet someone new. I feel like it’s one of those things where you learn as you go. And, having a playbook for this would be absurd because as cliché as this sounds, we are all so fundamentally different and all relationships have unique dynamics. All I know now is what it is I do not want, which to feel alone in a relationship. I do not want to feel ashamed of who I am and picking and choosing what side of me I will show and what side I will not. I’d like to know that every part of me is loved even if some can cause some complications. 

Sometimes, I wonder what my relationship would’ve been like if I had exposed myself fully to him. I even wonder if it would have flourished and if he would have loved me the same. I wonder if he struggled too and did not want to tell me because he was always committed to keeping things light. Did we both lie next to each other, silently suffering?  This is something I will probably never know. I am left with many unanswered questions but so many lessons learned. I’ve understood that hiding a huge part of myself has no benefit whatsoever, and even though I could do so in my previous relationship, it was a very short one, so god knows how long I would have realistically been able to keep that up. I had never expected him to save me and knew he didn’t have the power to do so, but I still wanted to feel like I was worthy of love despite what I was going through. It wasn’t all his fault and he did as much as he could with what was given to him. I wish I had expressed more and been brave enough even though there was a risk of him leaving me. Because at least I would’ve known that it was all real. However, I also strongly believe it is super important to understand other people’s limits, identify what things they can help you with, and what issues you should deal with with a professional because no one is capable of dealing with it all. It is unfair to expect them to do so.

Paris, March 2023

Surgery

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Surgery

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When my mother was pregnant with me, she had a few wishes. The usual ones, of course—a healthy and happy baby. But she also asked for a bit more: intelligence and grace. Then, she got more specific. She hoped her firstborn daughter would have the beauty of a model, an hourglass figure, and a big pair of breasts. It was an unusual request for an unborn child, but maybe she believed that if I had those things, life would be easier for me. Some of her wishes came true—her daughter was born healthy, relatively intelligent, and did end up becoming a model.

But, she also developed an abnormally huge pair of tits that were the bane of her existence from the moment she hit puberty. 

My breasts started growing at a very young age, and I can hardly remember a time when they weren’t there. I think I was around 10 or 11 when I first started receiving comments from people around me. It wasn’t like I had double D’s right away, but they were definitely noticeable. From the start, these comments made me uncomfortable. At that age, all you want is to blend in, to be like everyone else, and hearing those remarks always made me feel different. Looking back as an adult, I realise just how many comments I received about my body and breast size as a child. I probably would have been fine if no one pointed out how much faster I had developed compared to my peers, but for some reason, they always felt the need to remind me. To this day, I still don’t understand why.

The comments did not end there, they got worse as a tween. The boys have become horny monsters and there I was, me and big boobies, the perfect victim to be harassed with inappropriate comments. I was luckily already one to not be afraid to stand up to boys, so every time they teased me at PE, telling me that when I ran “the milk in my boobs would turn to yogurt”, I’d snatch them by the hair, pull them to my feet and make them apologise. This didn’t stop them to make the same comment over and over again and made me wonder that maybe they liked getting their hair pulled and getting my attention no matter where it came from. My girlfriends constantly told me how lucky I was to have big boobs and wished they had cleavage too, that I was “hotter” because of it. I was quickly sexualised from that point on, I was always told that I was “sexy”, “hot” and “seductive”, which once again is a little crazy to say to an underaged girl. Older men always told me that I was going to be man-eater later on in life and that “the boys will go crazy” for me. I’ve caught male teachers staring down as they explained a math problem to me. The overwhelming attention I was getting around my body was starting to get to me and really closed me off. At around 13 years old, I went through a “boy” phase where I dressed as a boy and wore baggy clothes, doing my best to conceal this body of mine. I had spent a whole summer in the south of France with my family without swimming. My mother asked me why I wasn’t swimming, I told her because I didn’t feel like being in a bathing suit in front of everybody. I was caught off guard by her reaction, when she angrily told me that I was wasting my life being so concerned about what people thought of me. She told me to look around me and look at all the people at the beach and all the different body types there were and how no one gave a fuck. That convinced me to go swimming, but just once.  

My biggest fear was to lose my identity because of my boobs, I feared that people would refer to me as “the one with the big boobs”. This obviously happened anyway, as much as I tried to hide my chest. As my friends started to get involved with boys and having their first kiss or getting fingered for the first time, I noticed how boys would talk so much afterwards, revealing each other’s businesses sometimes even humiliating the girls. This terrified me. I pushed back my first kiss for so long, using my braces as an excuse because I feared the noise it would make when someone actually got the chance to “experience me”. Who was going to be able to hook up with the girl with the big boobs? 

I was never seen around a boy at parties, there were no sighting of me kissing anyone and no one could claim they had stories about me because I simply did not speak to anyone. It went on for so long that people started creating rumours and saying that I was a lesbian. I still laugh at the thought of it, because like, what the actual fuck? 

By the time I was 15, I had started to really model and my first few clients were mainly bikini and lingerie brands. Why was this allowed, you ask? I do not know. Oddly enough modelling has created so many insecurities but also helped me open up. I also started to desire male attention more and realised that the ones getting the most attention were the ones that were considered “hot”, wearing cut off Topshop denim shorts, skimpy mini dresses and weren’t afraid to roll their school skirts up. So I tried to do the same, with some reluctance. I started to do what I feared other’s would do to me: I sexualised myself. That’s when I realised: these tits have power. Having boobs as a teenager had its perks, it made me looked curvier so it made me look grown. Looking grown meant that it I was rarely ever ID’d and I was able to get into any club. Buying drinks or cigarettes was a no brainer and it was easier to get attention from the older guys. I came to the silly conclusion that as long as I had boobs, I would be considered hot, meaning I would always be desired. If I ever felt insecure about something else, I’d just say that my boobs made up for it. They had the power to make me feel like I would perpetually be desired no matter what.

However, as I got older they didn’t stop growing, I grew a cup almost every 2 years and it started to be quite difficult to find clothes that would fit me properly. I couldn’t wear the same bikini styles as my petite friends. I had 3 bikini tops that I would be able to wear, when everyone else able to change it up everyday of the week. A lot of the clothes looked sexier on me, I would sometimes be dress coded in school for wearing the same exact outfit as a girl with an A cup. It started to take a toll on my back in my late teens and early twenties. I would sometimes cry for hours in bed from the pain that prevented me from sleeping causing severe exhaustion. Exercising was difficult, like running for instance was a pain, leading me to gain weight. Everything required a bra. Moving to Paris was exciting to me because I thought I could finally experiment with my personal style but I quickly realised that many of the things I wanted to wear just never sat right. On top of all of that, let’s also not forget the laws of gravity which is: “if you think your tits will stay perky forever as a size E cup, bitch you are tripping.” Boy did my boobs start to sag, they were heavy and if I didn’t have a bra on and it was hot out, my under boobs would sweat so much, leaving me with the most horrid slushy sensation. I simply couldn’t take it anymore. 

Broke and desperate, I began exploring my options. I discovered that in France, breast reductions for hypertrophy are covered by the public health system. I was quite overwhelmed because I didn’t know where to start, did I have to contact my GP first? Did they have to give me the green light to get a free breast reduction? Or should look for the surgeon and go to them right away? How do I know if it’s the right surgeon? Do I have to also prove that it has affected me psychologically to be eligible? 

Usually, I would have given up but the pain of living with the weight of actual two watermelons on my chest was honestly too much to bare. 

I decided to just find the right surgeon first. I remembered that the designer for the brand I interned for just had had a breast lift and was super happy with the result and went to a public hospital to get the procedure done. I asked for the name of the surgeon and booked an appointment right away. 

It was at the Tenon Hospital in 20th arrondissement, a 25 minute walk from my place. The beautiful Père Lachaise cemetery was on the way which is always a delight to walk through, especially in the morning when the Komorebi creates the most beautiful pattern of light and shadow. As I weaved my way between the gothic tombstones and old trees, I was confronted with the thought of death and its meaning—specifically, what the death of my big tits would signify.

I saw the breast reduction as my liberation. It would free me from years of physical pain and the mental strain it caused. No longer would I feel excessively vulgar or trapped in a hyper-sexualised image. It would strip away those labels and let me present myself as I’ve always wanted. I dreamed of moving freely, unburdened, no longer ‘the girl with huge boobs.’ This surgery felt like a rebirth—a chance for a fresh start and a new life. But, what if no one desired me anymore, what if without this sexy image I am worth less? Would I still get modelling jobs to support myself? Will my body look odd and disproportionate? What if the scars look crazy and I’ll never feel comfortable naked in front of anybody again? 

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I was greeted by a rude receptionist (because, of course, I’m in France), and sat waiting for what felt like an eternity. When they finally called my name, I met my surgeon for the first time. He asked me the basic questions, including what I did for a living. He paused for a moment, looked at me with a puzzled expression, and then asked, “So, you’re a model?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What kind? Aren’t you heavier than usual?”

I didn’t know how to respond. I suddenly felt like I was back in my modelling agency, where my agents always told me I should lose weight. Ignoring his question, I explained what I wanted: smaller breasts, specifically a C cup.

“Are you sure you want to go that small?” he asked.

“I think so,” I replied.

“Well, you’d lose all of your silhouette. Is that something you’re okay with?”

“Yes, as long as it looks good.”

“You’d look great with just a lift. They’ve sagged quite a bit, but you’d look amazing with a nice D.”

I told him I was experiencing back pain and would prefer to go as small as I could.

“I’d suggest you lose some weight first. Maybe five kilos.”

The words hit me hard. It felt like a trigger being pulled. I was already struggling with my weight, and now I was being told, again, that I wasn’t good enough. It transported me straight back to my childhood—to my stepdad’s voice telling me I needed to lose weight, even as a young teenager.

My mom always encouraged me to love myself, but my stepdad’s perfectionism lingered longer. He was the kind of man who needed everything in his life to be pristine, including his wife and kids. That constant pressure left me with a binge eating habit and body dysmorphia, struggles I carry to this day.

The weirdest part? The surgeon looked a lot like my stepdad. Sitting in that room, it felt like I was with him—the same critical eyes, the same fixation on perfection. And the most fucked-up part of all? I knew he was the one I wanted to do my surgery. Because, like my stepdad, he’d make sure I looked as perfect as possible.

I was quoted 4,500 euros for the procedure because I failed to mention that I wanted to remove more than 300 grams, which would have made the surgery free. I don’t know why I didn’t say anything—maybe our conversation had made me so anxious that I just said “okay” and convinced myself I’d find a way to pay for it.

The surgery was scheduled for five months later. But a month before the procedure, I quickly realised I couldn’t afford it and had to cancel.

Still, I didn’t give up. I didn’t give up on the surgery, and I didn’t give up on the fact that I wanted this specific surgeon. Eight months later, I went back—this time, less intimidated—and clearly demanded the procedure I wanted, including removing more than 300 grams. He agreed but informed me that because I was now taking the public route, I’d have to be placed on a waitlist. That meant another ten months of waiting.

During those ten months, I was consumed with anxiety. I had never had surgery before, and the fear of waking up in the middle of it or experiencing anesthesia awareness—feeling everything while being paralyzed—haunted me. It became an obsession, something I cried over repeatedly. There were moments I almost backed out, terrified I would be one of the 0.1%. But I didn’t. And then, the day finally came. My sweet mum, sensing my anxiety, flew in to be by my side. Knowing her, she had to be there in case anything happened to her firstborn. “You should’ve been careful what you wished for,” I joked, “because here I am, chopping off my boobs.”

The surgery was early, and we had to be there at 7 am. The whole preparation felt like something out of a dystopian sci-fi movie. All the patients for that morning’s surgeries were gathered together, asked to strip down, wear hospital gowns, and hand over all their personal belongings. We sat there in silence for what felt like an eternity before being led down freezing, dimly lit corridors to a waiting room. They tried to make it calming, with an odd water feature and colourful LED lights, but the observation windows made it feel more like some kind of strange experiment. The person ahead of me looked unwell, clearly fighting for their life. Beside me, a woman who had survived cancer before was awaiting a breast biopsy. She couldn’t stop talking to me about God, I think she wanted to make sure she was in His good graces, just in case. I was exhausted, wishing for a moment of rest, but it felt important to listen, to comfort her. I told her I would find Him, wanting her to feel like she had brought someone closer to God before her surgery.

Finally, it was my turn. I was led into a room with the surgeon and a group of medical students, where they took pictures of my breasts and drew surgical markings with a sharpie. I stood there, cold and afraid, feeling awkward in my vulnerability. Then I was taken to the operating room. Along the way, I kept my head down, afraid to see something that might spook me out of the surgery.

I was told to lie down on the operating table. The anaesthesiologist tried to make small talk, but all I could do was nod my head yes or no. It was go time. They asked me to envision my happy place, and my mind drifted to a memory of my mum and I on the beach—the one we spent so much of my early childhood on, during sunset. I was five again, playing in the sand as she watched me. I could feel the afternoon breeze on my skin, my hair blowing into my face, and the gentle sound of waves washing up on the shore.

Slowly, everything faded to black.

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A little more about the surgery they performed on me for those who are curious: 

The surgeon makes incisions on the breasts: around the areola (the darker area around the nipple), a vertical line from the areola to the breast crease (lollipop shape) and a horizontal line under the breast crease (anchor shape). Then they remove excess tissue, fat and skin to reduce the size and weight of the breasts. The nipples and areola are moved to a higher and more natural position and resized. They stitched me up and wrapped me tight. 

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I woke up an hour after the surgery in the recovery room and I guess was still high from the anaesthesia because I was already cracking jokes with the nurses. The first thing I did obviously was lift the covers to see my new and improved tits. I fucking did it, war is over. 

I was wheeled into my room by a middle-aged man who, despite the fact I looked like I’d been through hell and back, still tried to flirt with me. My room was spacious, clean, and had a lovely view. I had no idea where my phone was, but the nurse told me that both my mom and my best friend were on their way up. After waiting for what felt like an eternity, staring at the wall, I heard a soft knock on the door. It was my Ruby, holding a beautiful bouquet. Seeing her face and that bright smile brought me so much comfort. She’s always been the first to show up for me, without fail. Then, after getting lost for nearly an hour, my mother joined us, bringing a plant and some food. I couldn’t have asked for more.

Unfortunately, the next day, I had to go back into surgery due to internal bleeding. It’s a rare occurrence, the doctors assured me, but it was nothing to be too worried about. Of course, I was still panicking, but I made it through and was relieved that it was the only complication I had post-surgery. I stayed in the hospital for two days before being sent home to rest. For the next 10 days, I stayed in bed while a nurse came in daily to clean my stitches. The pain wasn’t too bad after the first few days, though I cried like a child to my mom as she comforted me the best she could. After that, it was mostly discomfort, as I had to hold myself up in strange positions, which caused a lot of back pain. So, no, I didn’t experience the instant relief in my back that many breast reduction patients describe. All I wanted to do was go outside and meet my friends. But it was also a time for reflection, to think about what I wanted to do when I was finally ready to step back into the world—several kilos lighter, without chronic back pain. Finally, the day came when I found the strength to go outside. The first thing I did? Treated myself to a blow-dry. It was my small victory, a moment of joy after all the waiting and healing.

I will never forget the moment they removed my stitches and I finally tried on my clothes—all the pieces I had tucked away over the years, waiting for this day. Tears filled my eyes as I stood there in disbelief, seeing the body I had always imagined, the body that felt like me. In that instant, every doubt and worry disappeared, replaced by the certainty that this was the best decision I had ever made. I admired my reflection, overcome with joy and excitement for the life I was about to embrace. 

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Bali, December 2024

Men in their 30’s

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Men in their 30’s

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I used to think men in their 30s were the perfect blend of maturity, stability, and fun—until I started dating them.

What is dating a man in his thirties truly like?

It is commonly said that men have more trouble multitasking than women, which now I think also applies to their personal development. Even though they may have developed well in certain aspects of their lives, usually in their careers, their emotional or overall maturity doesn’t necessarily follow. It’s kind of like they hyper-fixated so much on building themselves up professionally that they forgot to do the work of growing internally.

Like men in their 20s, these men are often not great communicators. When an uncomfortable topic arises, they are quick to run and hide, or it takes them an enormous amount of effort to communicate. I find that most would rather avoid a discussion, even over simple issues that could easily be resolved with a few exchanged words. They often claim their lack of communication is due to a fear of hurting us. I’ve never understood this way of thinking—how do they believe dragging it out will lessen the pain? They know it might hurt anyway, so why not just rip the bandaid off instead of leaving us confused and wasting our precious time? Also, why do they automatically assume we care enough to be offended every single time?

This summer, I met a man in his early thirties, who I knew was trouble from the beginning (the first thing I ever told him was that he looked like ‘bad news’). We ended up being in the South of France at the same time and figured we’d meet up and so we did a few times, along with his friends and went on a hike with them which was so extremely challenging, it could only bond us. One morning, I asked if he and his friends would like to have breakfast because I just wanted to say good-bye and thank them for letting me tag along. I just thought it was the polite thing to do and would have totally understood if they didn’t have the time. He suggested dinner instead, saying he’d give me the details shortly. He never did. So I thought I’d kindly let him know that I didn’t appreciate that. I understood if his plans had changed, but a quick heads-up wouldn’t have killed him.

He ended up calling me and explained that he just wanted to have an intimate moment with his friends and didn’t necessarily want me there. I told him that was understandable, but if that were the case, why invite me in the first place? And why not just tell me? He said he thought it would be awkward and didn’t know how to tell me, as he didn’t want to hurt my feelings. I was honestly dumbfounded by his answer. So, to recap: he DIDN’T want to see me, yet HE INVITED me to dinner, but then didn’t want to tell me it was off because he didn’t want to hurt my feelings?

First of all, why would it hurt my feelings? A reasonable person can understand that sometimes plans change. He didn’t have to say he didn’t want to see me; he could have just said he was busy, I’m a big believer in white lies, sometimes lying is necessary. If he just innocently lied, we could’ve both moved on with our lives, instead he made me wait around like an idiot. Thankfully, I made dinner plans with my friends as soon as it hit 6pm. But also, who told this man I would care THAT much? So much so that he was too scared to tell me, assuming I’d be heartbroken.

Obviously, I never saw him again, especially after I didn’t respond to his apology text, which made him so angry that he ‘ended things’—even though my lack of response should’ve made that pretty clear, but I’ll let him have it. Anyways, this is just one of many examples of grown men and their ridiculously bad communication skills.

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The only real difference I’ve noticed between the two age groups when it comes to communication is texting styles. You can forget about texting all day or night like you might with a guy in his early twenties. I’m not a huge texter myself, but when I say I’ve never texted a 30-year-old man for more than 15 minutes total, I’m not exaggerating. They either engage in small talk, asking how you’re doing or what you’ve been up to, send you the time and location for the date later, or dive straight into sexting—where, unsurprisingly, they invest a little more time.

But beyond texting, I’ve also noticed that older men tend to be cornier. It’s as if they’ve perfected the art of being smooth just enough to get by, but every now and then, their corniness inevitably slips through. Once, I met a man on Raya (I lasted a good week on it), a British guy—the only one I ever matched with because he didn’t have a photo on a private jet, or a yacht in St. Tropez. I really adored his creative work, and he was honestly brilliant. He was intelligent and had a great sense of humour—the British kind, which is my personal favourite. We clicked immediately, and I laughed out loud reading his messages. He had a habit of asking for pictures of me. It wasn’t always sexual or inappropriate; he just liked seeing me doing different things and was strangely invested in my outfits of the day. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but eventually, I wondered if he had a power kink—enjoying the fact that I did what he asked immediately. One thing about me is that I’ll always ask questions if I have any, so I asked him directly about the kink. He denied it and just said I was just so pretty. It was probably a lie, but he called me pretty so I didn’t dig further. One night, he asked for another picture, but this time he didn’t say ‘please,’ so I jokingly told him to say the magic word. Nothing, when I say NOTHING prepared to what I was about to receive next. He sent me a video of a close-up of his mouth in the dark, whispering slowly, ‘Pretty… please,’ with an emphasis on the ‘P’s,’ making his lips pop. It made my skin crawl. I almost threw my phone across the room from the ick that completely took over my body. You had to be there to really grasp the level of corniness—it might not sound too bad, but trust me, it was horrendous.

That’s a prime example of how their corniness inevitably reveals itself, no matter how cool they seem. I wonder if it’s just my bad luck meeting ‘cornballs,’ or if this is truly a generational thing—maybe women in their 30s wouldn’t have flinched and might have even found that video attractive, responding with the same energy. I feel a little mean making fun of him, but I’m blocked anyway. Apparently, asking if he would talk to me differently or respect me more if I were his age, which I thought was a simple question, was too spooky for him to answer—further proving my point about poor communication skills and cowardice.

On the other hand, while their mouths may not be great for communicating, they are certainly better for other things. They know what they like, but more importantly, they understand the female anatomy a little better than their younger counterparts. They also tend to have more confidence, which makes the whole experience more fun and exciting. I always go in without knowing what to expect. I’ve found myself in situations I never imagined, like getting my armpits licked—a body part I never thought would be near someone’s mouth (I could go without that happening again, but hey, at least now I know). I also find it easier to be playful with them because I always feel like they’ve already seen a lot, and the chances of me being the weirdest person they’ve slept with are probably low. Being with an older guy has definitely helped me feel more confident and allowed me to let loose, even trying or saying things I probably wouldn’t with someone younger.

Another thing that I really appreciate about older guys is how they tend to find their ‘uniform.’ There’s something undeniably sexy about a man who knows what he likes to wear and sticks to it. Some might call it boring, but to me, it’s a clear sign of someone who’s confident in who they are. I’ve noticed a pattern: they either wear Uniqlo tees or, if they’ve got a bit more cash, Aimé Leon Dore white tees. I’ve seen three of them with multipacks of those ALD shirts lying around in their apartments. Of course, this might not apply to all men, but it’s definitely true for the type I go for. I also love when they consistently smell the same and stick to the same grooming products. Men often get into these things later than we do, so when they do, it’s a good sign they’re ‘ripe’ enough for my taste.

This extends to how they plan their dates—they know what they like, so there’s never any awkward back-and-forth about where I’d like to eat. I’ve never had to be involved in the planning process. They give me a time and place and I have to do is show up. Since my knowledge of wine is still a work in progress, they usually pick the bottle, and if it’s a sharing situation, they select the dishes—though they always ask if there’s something on the menu I’d like to try. I do not do this intentionally but I usually go out with men who have good jobs which means the bill is always taken care of even when I try to get it. The conversations flow easier as most of them know more about the things I am interested in. I learn so much about various topics, especially their unique areas of expertise or interests. And love to see the passion in their eyes when they talk about them. I’ve spent time with a chef that made me taste such interesting food that I would have never been able to experience on my own, I’ve listened to a movie director the different techniques and the little industry secrets, an art lawyer teaching so much about art and always invited me to weekly museum visits and a rugby player talk about the effects the sport has on the human body while also introducing me to Camus. Time spent with them is so incredibly stimulating and even though most of these encounters never really work out due to all the reasons   I have stated above, I always leave a little smarter. 

By contrast, I genuinely believe I would struggle to date guys my age. While they may eventually catch up, I still find it rare to form a meaningful connection with them. Unlike older men, where I often feel like the student, with younger guys, I tend to take on more of a teacher role. While this can be rewarding in its own way, I find it less engaging overall. I also think I have a strong sense of self and may lack the patience to be with someone still figuring themselves out.  

It’s not that I have everything figured out, but I did a lot of that work during my teenage years and now have a clear idea of who I am, what I want out of life, and the kind of person I aspire to be. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with taking time to find yourself—that’s what your twenties are for. However, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve noticed that many guys (not all—relax!) struggle to balance that self-discovery process with maintaining a healthy relationship. Self-discovery is often time-consuming and requires focusing inward, which can leave little room for a partner. This doesn’t only apply to men—I see women, too, hiding behind relationships instead of facing the sometimes scary challenge of figuring out who they are as individuals.  

So, maybe it’s not just about age. But what I’m getting at is that the likelihood of someone in their early twenties knowing who they are and what they want is often lower compared to someone older.

My first boyfriend, who was 27 at the time (eight years older than me), made me wait a year before committing. This was mostly because he wasn’t sure what he wanted or what kind of life he wanted to lead mixed in with some good ol’ commitment issues. Looking back, I don’t know why I stayed for so long. I think I just wanted to help him and hoped to be the reason he found happiness. At the time, I was still figuring myself out too, but I didn’t find it hard to dedicate my time and energy to our relationship. Unfortunately, he couldn’t do the same. I should have recognised that he wasn’t able to give me what I needed in a relationship, rather than clinging to the hope that he would change. He simply wasn’t ready for that, but I became attached to the idea of who he *could* be, which was obviously the wrong approach.  That relationship was very mentally exhausting, and I don’t think I’ll ever have the patience to go through something like that again.

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I get “You’re so mature for your age” a lot, which I think they think I would take as a compliment but the only type of girl who it’d flatter would be an underaged one that has been groomed. But despite saying that so much, I find that they never truly seemed to take me seriously.

They view me as a temporary fling because I’m in my early, almost mid-twenties—a placeholder for the woman they’ll eventually settle down with. ‘De passage,’ as we say in French. Like when the American director told me he had to end our weird situationship because his childhood best friend was finally single and moving to the city, after holding me in bed a week prior, stroking my face, and telling me how amazing I was. Or the British man who said, ‘Too baby to be wifey for lifey’ (yes, in those exact words). Because I’m young, they assume I’m not expecting marriage, children, or anything ‘scary’ like that. They think I’m naïve and more likely to tolerate bad behavior—which I’ve definitely done in the past. They know that for most younger girls, the bar is lower, so they don’t have to do much to impress us. Commitment is never discussed; these ‘relationships’ survive on my own delusions and hopes. It’s true to some extent—I do have time before those big commitments—but that’s no reason to treat me like a placeholder. I think we can all agree on that.

It’s an awkward phase of dating for me. I feel like I should be dating people my own age since we’re at the same stage in life, but I don’t find spending time with them stimulating. On the other hand, I want to date older men because they’re more interesting to me, but we’re not at the same stage in life. I may need to wait a couple of years before considering anything serious. But will that really change anything? As I’ve proven, maturity isn’t necessarily tied to age.

I’ve also wondered if there’s something fundamentally wrong with the grown men dating me. Does it mean women their age have rejected them? Or do they refuse to date women their age because they know they wouldn’t put up with half the nonsense a younger girl might? Are they the kind of people who like to take advantage? Do they have Peter Pan syndrome?

Of course, this is just my experience, and I’m not claiming it’s universal. I’m sure there are guys my age who are as mature as women, and there must be men in their 30s who respect younger women and understand they can be taken seriously—or who simply don’t think it’s appropriate to date someone 10 years younger. But this pattern has been hard to ignore in my own life and among the people around me.

As much as I liked older guys for our shared interests, I started wondering if there were deeper reasons I was drawn to them—and I was certain it wasn’t just because my dad died. After reflecting, I realised that being around them made me feel closer to the life I wanted. Not because I expect them to fund everything or share their life with me, but because I get a taste of the future I want: seeing the apartments they’ve bought, hearing about their achievements, whether it’s an award for creative work, a published book, a movie screened, or a sports championship. When they tell me about their vacations and how they only travel business class now, or when they casually pay the bill with a titanium card, I feel like I’m getting a glimpse into the life I’m working towards. Their busy schedules, filled with things they’re passionate about, reflect the work they put in during their 20s.

I admire how they prioritise their long-term goals and dreams, often refusing to move meetings or calls for something else like parties or dates. Even though some struggle to balance different aspects of their lives, their ambition, motivation, and consistency are admirable. 

Ultimately, I guess, it’s not that I care to be with an older man—I want to be them.

Some of my encounters with men in that age group might seem questionable, but I’ve learned a lot from them, especially about work ethic and prioritising myself. I’ve started doing what they do, and I can already tell you it’s effective. I plan to stick with it, and I know I’ll achieve the things I want. I can’t imagine how unstoppable I’ll be when I combine their aggressive drive for success with our emotional intelligence and ability to balance multiple things. I’ll practically be a fucking superhero.

As much as being around them makes me feel closer to my super-successful future, I’ve come to realise that everything happens in its own time. There are no shortcuts. If anything, they’ve shown me just how much work you have to put in to make great things happen.

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Bali, December 2024

It’s Not The End of The World.

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It’s Not The End of The World.

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I went to the beach alone the day after. I drove my purple Vespa to Legian Beach, one I had spent much of my childhood in. As a kid, I loved to hold the sparkly dark grey sand in my little hands, admiring how it shined under the harsh morning rays. I went to the first beach boy I saw, requested a sun bed nearest to the ocean, and ordered a coconut. I took my dress off and sat down. I felt like shit; my stomach was in pain from all of the anxiety, and something in me knew that he had done it. I thought about our conversation the night before, the one we had after I looked through his social media following. 

I snooped because one of my girlfriends found out that her boyfriend betrayed her with air hostesses by looking through who he was following, so I got curious, and I genuinely thought I wouldn’t find anything. Until I did. One account stood out because S only followed people who inspired him, such as musicians, artists, photographers, and potential clients really; this one was nothing like that. It was an ordinary girl; I quickly saw that she was Greek and that she had vacationed in Paros just like he did. She had long dark hair and very European features. She was your average club girl wearing tight-fitting mini dresses and liked to do her glam. She always had a fresh set of colourful acrylic nails. She reminded me of the London girls I’d see in the tube wearing nothing but their club outfits and heels in 1-degree weather; I have always admired their dedication to their look and not dying of hypothermia. In other words, she didn’t look like me. My heart was racing as I lay in the dark looking through her profile; I looked for her on another platform, where I found the video that confirmed it all for me. She had posted a video with a cryptic text alluding that she had found her French summer love and that she was bummed that he was not going back to Athens with her but to Paris. Before asking S about it all, I made sure to see if she followed his other friends; I thought maybe it was one of them and not him. She didn’t. I was 99,5% sure now that she was speaking about my S. 

 I texted him, “Who is E?” he didn’t answer. Something in me told me he saw the message but was probably too nervous to give me a response. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I called him, and he picked up quickly. “Hi Vivi, you okay?” “Yes, fine, who’s E?” “Why do you ask?” (First red flag, ladies, if he asks you why do you ask? Instead of giving you a straight answer, he is just trying to figure out what you already know). So I asked again, “Who is E?” He told me that she was some girl at the club he met. Long story short, he convinced me that nothing had happened, that he did not buy her drinks, they didn’t dance together, and no, they didn’t kiss on the dance floor. 

He stayed on the phone with me for a good hour and a half as I cried my eyes out, even though he was having drinks with a friend. It made me think he cared for me, that he’d rather make sure I was feeling okay even though he was busy, something that never happened in my first relationship.

He told me to go to bed, that I shouldn’t stay up so late for nothing, that he loved me very much, and wished he could be there to hold me. 

I was now debating whether to trust him or to get her side of the story. I really didn’t want to speak to her; I didn’t want to be that girl, the insecure one who would drag other girls into their relationship problems. That girl that is so crazy that she’ll reach out to just anyone because she was always suspecting something, the kind that will call his buddies to make sure he’s with them and not out cheating. I truly wanted to go for the first option, and I tried to convince myself that the doubts would go away and that I trusted him. But I knew the truth, and I knew myself: I obsess over things, and I can’t get over things easily. 

By sunset time, I knew that I had to get to the bottom of it. I couldn’t trust his word because he was just a man at the end of the day. 

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

I drove home and started plotting all the ways I could get her to tell me what happened without directly contacting her.

And I went full detective mode, to the point I kind of scared myself. 

#1 I created a fake Tiktok account, which I was going to use to comment, “Is his name S?” And made sure that it was written in Greek letters so that if he ever snooped on her account, he wouldn’t see his name and suspect anything. I waited a good 24 hours, checking over and over again, when I finally saw the response I had dreaded in my empty notification box. “Yes indeed!” She commented. I thought I was going to lose my mind. 

#2 I had asked a bunch of my friends to comment both in Greek and English on the video; I had to make sure that it wouldn’t be too obvious that they were all related to me, so we had to be smart. One of my girls asked her friend who was on vacation with her to comment, and I have never met this girl. I wrote the comment for her: “I also had a summer fling with an Italian last month, but we only kissed :’( what happened with yours?”. I had another one comment on her business account and remove the video of me she had up on there, also asking for a storytime in Greek this time. We waited, and she did not give any responses. 

I sat in my mother’s living room and couldn’t handle the anxiety and the thousands of possible scenarios in my head. It consumed me, and I did, in fact, obsess over it all. I felt alone, and the only person that could actually make me feel better about it all was the source of my pain. I felt stuck and needed to hear her side. So, I decided to reach out; all I hoped for was that she’d be understanding, truthful and kind. Above all, I hoped that she’d confirm that he was not lying and that our relationship was as beautiful and real as I thought.

I checked my phone way too many times; I paced around the house like a meth head; it took her a good 10 hours to get back to me. 

My world came crashing down, and my hands were shaking as I thanked her for being kind enough to take the time to respond so graciously and for telling me what truly happened. 

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

 I was on a flight to Vietnam the next morning for a family vacation; I didn’t sleep much because I spent the night chain-smoking my mum’s boyfriend’s cigarettes. The tears didn’t stop. I wanted to fly back to Paris to deal with it all in person and had violent fantasies of caving his head in with my fist while simultaneously wanting him to hold me and apologise profusely. I haven’t felt pain like this in a long time, especially after the beautiful eight months I had spent with him. Everything felt like a lie that the things I thought we shared and cherished were not so special after all; I thought maybe he wasn’t as happy as he looked, and I lived in this fantasy world alone. I was sitting with my 13-year-old brother on the plane. He’d seen me cry so many times before, but it broke my heart even more this time because I could see in his baby face that he understood that it wasn’t like the usual. He could see I was distraught, and as an older sister, I felt like I wasn’t doing my job by being unable to hide this from him. I could see that he was trying to comfort me as best as he could by shyly asking me what happened and trying to distract me by talking about the different games he liked. His compassion touched me so deeply, more than he will ever know and in that moment, he reminded me that not all boys are inherently bad. Yes, he is still a child, but he showed me that some still have a heart and that some little boys can grow up keeping them. 

Hanoi was extremely hot in the summertime, so unbelievably humid and rowdy. Even as an Indonesian who is very used to crazy traffic and reckless driving, I was amazed by the driving there. In some way, I am grateful that I could go through heartbreak in a super busy city like Hanoi because I was so overly stimulated as soon as I stepped out of my hotel that I didn’t have the time to feel the pain truly. All of my senses were activated at all times; the smell of all of the street food took over my nostrils; everything moved so quickly and all at the same time, my eyes couldn’t catch a break; the loud sounds of the karaoke bars and clubs deafened me and the constant heat and humidity always kept me slightly uncomfortable. I also shared a room with my brother and did everything with my family, leaving me little time to be alone and overthink. 

I spent a few nights on the phone with him as he tried to convince me that our relationship was worth saving, that it was a one-night slip-up and that I shouldn’t take it so seriously because he didn’t feel anything at all for this girl.  At times, I would shout at him because how dare he minimise his actions and the pain I was feeling, manipulating me to keep me around. But other times, I understood him and told myself that maybe I, too, could have had a slip-up like. I was so conflicted and didn’t know what to think. 

My mum finally came to me one day as we drove to Hoa Lu. She softly asked me, “So, what’s been going on?” I told her the whole story and expressed that I didn’t know what to do. I was stunned by her answer and did not expect it: “That’s it?” “What do you mean that’s it, mum? He hurt me bad!” “You guys are so young, you’re bound to slip up; if you love him and he’s always treated you right, why end a great connection and friendship over a silly thing? Everybody cheats or gets cheated on at least once, if he is the one, he won’t do that to you again, and you shouldn’t be this shattered just because he’s being an ass, don’t give it that much power. You have to love yourself enough to know that this has nothing to do with you, you understand? Don’t take everything so seriously. But do NOT go back to him if you cannot find it in you to truly forgive him and really put it in the past. If you are going to be suffering, anxious and paranoid, cut the ties now. Do not stay for the sake of being with him. Stay if you think you can find the happiness you already had. The only thing that matters is you, and he’s just an add-on to your life. Make sure he is not dead weight. It’s not the end of the world; whatever you choose, you will turn out fine, stronger even.” 

I felt comforted by the advice my mum gave me, and, to this day, it is the one that made the most sense to me. I embraced the notion that the correct answer is whatever feels suitable for me, recognising my power to decide whether this situation would consume me or not. His actions, I realised, didn’t define me; they were a reflection of him, not who I am. Though easier said than done, acknowledging this truth marked a crucial first step, and I’ll forever appreciate my mum for sharing it when the wounds were still fresh, smoothing out my healing journey.

But I had to take the time to sit with myself and be honest. Could I forgive him? Will it ever be the same again? 

Mum’s reminder that everyone faces betrayal and most recover echoed my thoughts. Despite the initial belief that the pain would linger indefinitely, it was likely not destined to stay. What he did was vile, yet in the grand scheme, not that deep.

Recognising the need to let go, whether of anger and resentment through forgiveness or of him because holding on was more harmful, became my priority.

I envisioned the person I wanted to be in the future. I could be the woman at the café, bitter, cursing him over a third glass of wine. Or, I could be the one laughing about it all, finding humour in the absurdity of it happening on a family vacation, how silly it was of me to think he would be “the one”, and how crazy it was that he now has a family. 

I chose the second one and didn’t want to wait to be in my 30s to see things that way.

I took the time away from him to really focus on healing and feeling better, and I knew for that to happen, I couldn’t go through this alone and isolate myself. I also believed that it was vital for me to make the decision without having him around to make sure that it was a decision that came from me. I decided to speak to everybody around me, especially people older than me, to give me even more perspective to come closer to the woman I wanted to become. I also thought that it was essential to have different points of view to form a solid opinion.

My best friend’s parents were in Vietnam, too; she didn’t come as she had classes. One night, after having one of the most delicious dinners together, her mum and I took a stroll in the busy Hanoi streets. “I can’t believe he’d do that to you, and he sounded so good on paper.” I agreed. “I think you better leave now; he’s not worth fighting for. You should be with someone who respects you and give yourself enough respect to walk away.” This was a tough one to hear because, in reality, I was not ready to walk away, and I loved him. “But he told me it was a dumb one-night thing and that he really didn’t care for her or anything.” She looked at me like I was crazy and shook her head, “Don’t be ridiculous. If he were honest and felt guilty, he’d tell you, but he didn’t. And all that talk about protecting you by not telling you is just his poor excuse to cover his ass. You are wasting your sweet time; you will waste your energy fixing a relationship you didn’t break when you could be having a better time with someone worth it and at your level.”

I have never been one to believe that people didn’t deserve a second chance and believed that people made mistakes and that that didn’t define them. But I also agreed with what she had to say and knew that I would potentially waste my time because I knew it would take us a long time to get back to where we were. As much as I believed that I would forgive him one day and put it all in the past, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Did I have the energy? Was I not better off putting that energy into something else? We had not built anything to save, we did not have a family, and we didn’t say our vows. What was it I was truly hanging on to? 

I spent my nights at the hotel watching TikTok therapists talking about dealing with cheating and weirdly found comfort in that, maybe because they told me what I wanted me to hear, to sell their services to people in the same situation as I was. Many claimed that cheating was the ultimate test of a relationship, and if both partners made the effort to overcome this obstacle, they could expect eternal love on the other side. I couldn’t help but to hang on to that. There was a lot of bullshit but I now know more about different attachment styles, human behaviour and basic psychology. 

I scheduled a call with my therapist, too. I knew I had to take care of myself, and this was one of the ways I knew how to do it. I told him that I was hurting but that I knew that this had nothing to do with me and that I didn’t blame myself, which is not usual for us women. We love to blame ourselves, it’s like we have built-in guilt. but I didn’t feel that way this time. I knew that I was an amazing partner to him. I gave him everything I could and ensured he knew he was loved. I cared for him deeply and showed him a thousand different ways. I always kept it interesting and looked my best when we went on dates. I also maintained my sex drive the whole time and was down for anything spontaneous. 

I also told him that the pain at some point was really bad that I started having dark thoughts, but I managed to calm myself down and avoided things to get too far. All I wanted to focus on was feeling better, but that I didn’t know if this involved keeping S in my life or if I had to leave. “As your therapist, I shouldn’t be saying this to you but I am so proud of you and you should be too. You’ve come a long way and the younger you wouldn’t have been this clear minded, I am so surprised that you have not blamed yourself and that is such a relief. I truly have no notes for once and trust that you will know what is best for you. I have no notes.” As much as hearing this felt like one of the biggest achievements of my life, I wished that my therapist would have just told me what to do instead, but I knew this was not something he could do. I was at a point where I just wanted someone to tell me what the right answer was, even though there was none.

After flying back to Bali, I spoke with my mum’s boyfriend on our front porch. We had gotten closer over the years, and I think this moment right here made us even closer. How could it not? When I am literally having a breakdown in front of him, smoking all of his cigarettes, snotty and teary-eyed as I blurt out, “You men are dogs”. He calmly chuckled, “Yes, we are, especially when we’re young”. “You shouldn’t give it too much thought”, he added in his posh British accent, “don’t try to figure out why he did it, what you could’ve done differently; there’s no good answer. You know, I was such a dickhead when I was in my twenties, I didn’t care about anything, and I didn’t necessarily want to hurt anybody, but nothing mattered. I just wanted to have fun.” “I liked girls very much, and it was easy to be tempted by pretty girls. That’s a real difference between boys and girls when it comes to temptation, we are weaker. It doesn’t make it right, and it’s no excuse, but it’s just true. This changes with age (for some), but it takes quite a while to be honest, so if I were you, don’t wait on us.” 

It was hard to grasp the concept that some people could be so careless about hurting others for the sake of “fun”. Personally, it wasn’t something I could do. The pain I inflict on others I tend to feel too. But some people are just like that, and what can you do? There’s no deep explanation. Not every action needs to be inspected and understood. I have no control over how people behave, the only people I will be responsible for will be my children. Even then, there will be limits to that. I knew all I had to do was accept that my boyfriend was a person capable of hurting me, even though I didn’t think he was. He was just like many young men out there. He was not special. It was a hard pill to swallow because I had put him on a pedestal and truly thought he could do no wrong. In some weird way, this humanised him. And when I finally saw that he was like the rest of them, it was much easier to let go.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

A few days later, I received a text from my best friend’s father, who has been the biggest father figure in my life, asking me if he could take me out for lunch. I didn’t talk to him about it in Vietnam because I feared that he would yell at me for choosing the wrong guy again. He has always treated me like his own daughter, and that meant he was overprotective when it came to us and boys ever since we were teenagers, and that has never changed. After our conversation, I figured his wife told him and wanted to check on me. I met him at his favourite sushi restaurant, where he was alone. I sat down before him and asked him how he was doing, “I’m doing good. What about you?” I tried my best to keep my composure, “it’s been a rough couple of weeks.” I proceeded to tell him what S had done to me in detail. I expected him to call me an idiot and to wake the fuck up, that I deserved so much better and that I couldn’t possibly be crazy enough to stay with a scumbag like him. But instead, he told me, “You know guys his age are greedy, they’re like hungry dogs, you throw em’ any bone, and they’ll chase. That’s just how it is.” Yet another man confirming me that, basically, boys have trouble thinking when all the blood from their brain has travelled down to their stiff dicks. “You think you’re gonna marry the guy?” “I don’t know, I don’t think so.” “Well, I don’t think you will because he just proved to you that he is not someone you should marry, and you’re like 23. But you have fun with him, don’t you?” “Yeah, I really do.” “If you don’t expect much and just want to have a good time and know it isn’t forever, stay. It’s not easy to find a good connection, but just don’t expect much; that’s the tricky part. You’ll probably never trust him again, and you probably didn’t trust him in the first place.” “I did trust him.” “No, you didn’t; something in your gut told you to look through his social media. You didn’t trust him.” I stayed silent and started to realise that maybe he was right.

“In fact, you should never have very high expectations and take yourself too seriously in relationships in your 20s. Do whatever you want because they’ll always do whatever they want. The only rule is not to compromise yourself. You can stay, but you need to be okay with the thought that he might do it again and be comfortable with that. You need to know that you can’t stop anyone from doing what they want to do. People always find ways. But hey, maybe you’ll also want to do your own thing, and that’s fine, too. An open relationship could be an option, but you must ensure that any decisions you make will not compromise you and your well-being. That’s all I gotta say to you. ” I am not sure to be the kind to be into open relationships and personally do not truly understand the point of them. If you want to fuck around, then why commit? I don’t know, that’s just my opinion. On the other hand, this guy and I did have a true connection. We were like besties, he made me laugh like no other and I felt like we truly understood each other. I wondered if what was hurting me the most was not the fact that he cheated but that there was potentially the end of a friendship that I cherished very much. Could I stay friends with him and not be jealous if we ever broke up and saw other people? I don’t know, maybe with time? I just knew that I had to be real with myself and make sure that I didn’t make any decisions that would hurt me, which would take some time to figure out. 

I made a promise to myself then and there that I would always put myself first. I figured that this was the moment to do so and to grow into the woman I wanted to be. I spent most of my early twenties trying to be the perfect partner to the people I was seeing, to be a wife to people who didn’t deserve the treatment, and it was somewhat a waste of time because if you look around now, they’re no longer there. No one made the cut to be Mr. Blaise. 

I also had the tendency to think so far ahead in the future that it put a lot of unnecessary pressure, and the thought of something ending gave me so much anxiety that it was sometimes difficult to be in the moment. I have fought many fights that didn’t matter and held on to things and people, and when I think about them now, I can’t tell you why. Although, I do not regret any of it; I now know that I can fully love someone, which is a beautiful quality to have. 

But maybe it was time for me to reel it back, take things easy and focus on having a good time. I can assure you that whoever stays around long enough will have the world. I can’t give that to anyone. 

I spent the rest of my trip back home doing my usual things: going to the beach, driving around on my bike and seeing my high school friends. I find peace in hotel rooms, so I booked a few nights at the Potato Head for some alone time to be in my feelings and occasionally cry; it made me feel like I was in a movie. 

I partied and drank a little more than usual and spent hungover days by the pool with my girlfriends, where we spoke about my situation. It was interesting to see that there was a big difference between my younger and older peers. The young ones are usually more cut-throat and believed that if one cheats, it had to be game over right away and that immediate no contact was the ultimate goal, whereas my older peers had a little more “wiggle room”. 

I think this comes with one being more realistic than the other because, at the end of the day, even though my friends were giving me shit for considering getting back with him, all of them have already taken a cheater back multiple times. “Honestly, V, once a cheater, always a cheater.” One of them said, “Don’t be an idiot and leave that man; he’s a piece of shit. Who the fuck does that, bro.” The other added. They all took turns saying what they would say to him if they ever ran into him and came up with the funniest things. I told myself that I probably was not going to be able to bring him around anytime soon because the poor boy would have to go through hell with these girls if we ever stayed together. I was also truly grateful that I had friends who truly had my back and that even if he maybe were no longer going to be a part of my life, I would never be alone. 

It was time for me to leave the island and face him in person. 

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

We broke up the same night I landed in Paris by the Canal Saint Martin; it was a beautiful end-of-summer night where the temperature was just right. I had his things with me because even though he didn’t say it over the phone, I knew he had changed his mind just by hearing his voice. I still was unsure if staying together was a good decision, but I thought what we had was special; therefore, it was worth a try. He didn’t think so and told me that he needed his freedom which I had no choice but to give him, because the idea of him feeling trapped with me is far worse than the idea of him leaving. 

I was angry at him for not leaving me sooner when my family and close friends still surrounded me, for letting me keep him in mind while I tried to fix the damage he had caused in me and for picking up the pieces, for making me believe that he cared about us as much as I did. 

I felt used and one of the worst things I could ever feel, in my opinion, stupid; he managed to make me feel so extremely stupid. He broke my heart a second time like once was not enough. I did not cry once in front of him that night and have not felt that numb in a very long time. 

As we parted ways, I blasted “Champagne Showers” by LMFAO in my ears and felt the adrenaline rush through my body. I was not ready to head home yet and decided to meet with some friends for a few drinks, and I ran into someone I had had a past with that same night; I ended the night in his apartment as we shared what we had been up to since the last time we saw each other. 

He is slightly over a decade older than me, and I have always enjoyed our brief encounters. We didn’t talk much, but it was always stimulating and interesting when we did. He also surprisingly has a great sense of humour, which you’d never guess looking at his stern face and intimidating 6’7 build. He sat across from me in his dimly lit apartment, “I just flew in today”, I said, “No wonder you are so tanned. Did you have a good time?” “Yes and no; I got cheated on by my now ex while I was there, so it was a little difficult.” “We truly are dirty dogs, aren’t we? Especially in our 20’s.” He shook his head. Surprise, surprise, another man revealing to me that men in their twenties are just hungry canines. “I wish I never found out. He didn’t even have the decency to make the effort to hide it from me properly.” We laughed. “Have you cheated before?” I asked, “Oh yes, plenty of times.” I was not surprised by this answer. “How will you deal with monogamy if you ever decide to get married?” “I think everyone should have their own individual lives sometimes, and slip-ups are healthy. They keep it alive. I think it should be a given that sometimes we sleep with other people, but it shouldn’t be shared because that would make things complicated; it’s best not to know.” It was an honest French man answer, but it had me thinking about monogamy and whether it truly is the way to go. Most men I have spoken to have cheated, and they all know it is bad but still do so, so maybe from a moral standpoint, they don’t see it as “too bad” to not do it. We sat in silence for a bit. “He’s an ass like most of us, you know, but I am not worried for you at all. I know you have men lining up for you no matter what; it should be the least of your worries. There is something about you, a certain mystery that makes you unapproachable yet desirable. That’s what caught my attention anyway.” This made me blush and made me shy. I love compliments but am not great at responding to them, “Thank you,” I answered quietly. Even though they were just words, they sure helped a lot when you’ve just been dumped. 

I finally was able to cry when I got home. It was all over, which I knew would happen at some point, but not this soon, not this way. I was upset that the last month together would spoil the rest of our memories forever, and to this day, it is hard for me to recall the good times. When I do, a bitter taste takes over. I was tired and desperately wanted the lingering pain to go away for good, but something in me knew that it would maybe take a while… I feared that it would take longer than our short eight months together. No matter how much logic I can apply to provide me with temporary relief, my heart remains in pain. 

All of these conversations were, without a doubt, very helpful and have given me some clarity to some extent. They have taught me a lot, but some things will always remain unanswered, leaving me confused. They also showed me that I am so loved. The overwhelming support I had gotten for the ones closest to me showed that this was no great loss and that I have everything I have ever needed.This experience just simply shed light and showcased the love that surrounds me that I have a tendency to forget I have and I am truly grateful and refuse to take any of it for granted from now on.   

The truth was that I would turn out just OK and that one day, he wouldn’t matter anymore. He would slip away from my mind, gently turning into a vague memory and finally disappearing for good. Making us perfect strangers again, and I wait impatiently for the day to come. 

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

Bali, December 2023