why hasn’t he texted back yet?

In the little over a year since my live-in relationship of nearly three years ended and I have been single, I have asked this question multiple times.

It is followed by frantic calls to girlfriends, screenshots of chats that need deciphering, angry and astounded declarations at how this was completely unwonted behaviour that I did not deserve — yet all of the above tinged with a growing chill in the centre of my stomach. He doesn’t like me. I’m not good enough. I’ve lost him.

I mean I never really had him to begin with, we’d only been texting two weeks and we hardly knew anything about each other but somehow, his approval of me and his want for me had to be absolute. How could he not be utterly starvingly swooningly obsessed with the fascinating creature that I was? Funny how even when I thought this about myself, it was still punctuated with so then what about this perfect creature has driven him away? Let’s get into it ladies come on, *cracks knuckles*

My texts are too long. Too verbose. Too sentimental. Too unhinged. Who sends 12 minute voice notes detailing the joy of reading a book at home with music playing and her cats lounging around her while also traversing into existential musings in the same breath? Who sends pictures every hour on the hour because look how stunning the lighting/aesthetic/world is. Who wants to live-stream every joy, every gasp, every epiphany, every outfit, every horniness, every inconvenience, every discovery, every song, every new morning from the same fucking balcony with the same watery cup of tea, who does that??

I did, once.

Being in love was simpler when I was growing up — it meant cheesy romance, an almost constant connection, and a growing up that you just assumed would happen together. I’m not about to debate the machinations of how it used to be, I’m just saying, how it used to be.

But 2023–2024 has been a really strange time to be single for the first time since, well... It’s been so long I can’t be bothered to do the math.

Anyway, being single in this “era” started with over-stimulation at it’s finest. I was presented with a smorgasbord of options which did have it’s benefits. New people, experiences, widening of perspectives, self-acceptance and a refusal to accept bullshit and disrespect that my generation certainly didn’t grow up with.
We’re still fully-grown adults trying to grasp the concept of drawing boundaries, saying no, and stuck soft-launching goodbyes.

But stay in this over-populated world long enough and you’ll realise that the layers of loneliness and self-destruction run so deep that you only recognise it hidden in the slight crack of an open laugh, a powerfully worded Instagram post about self-love that seems seeped in sorrow, or casual shrugs of shoulders that say “yea, I’m totally cool with that” before immediately turning to the next distraction. Sorry, I meant experience.

Before you can form a connection deep enough, it was already time to flit — what if you were settling, what if there was something more exciting out there, my god this girl is sending toooo many texts I’m overwhelmed but why communicate this to her when it’s far easier to ghost.

Let me tell you, as a first-time recipient of ghosting over the last year, there is nothing Casper-like about it. I cannot comprehend the behaviour, severely condemn it, and have since met so many women, specifically, who have suffered the same fate. Somehow I, a 32-year-old woman who lives alone and juggles multiple roles and careers is able to text back, communicate intent and clarity, and make you feel valued but you cannot return even half the favour?

I felt waves of sorrow for the dwindling of the romantic. I wanted a companion, as I continued to evolve. I wanted the “amory” part of polyamory, the rather simple (to me) notion of love without possession and the existence of a primary partner who would trust me enough to communicate and evolve together — while we never denied each other the joy of discovering new connections and the vulnerability-soaked-growth of intimacy.

So far I have failed. My emphatic words and breathless explanations have seemed to translate to so, now we fuck…yes?

I couldn’t explain love to scheduled polyamory — “you’re my Tuesday slot and I can’t change it because I’m booked for the week and it’s ending with an orgy on Saturday.” Great if it works for you my love, but that’s not what I’m looking for.

I’m looking for someone who wants to know who I am, is brave enough to be vulnerable about who he is, and agree to build a life together. A life that is sure to have joint accounts, red tape, and huffiness over whose turn it is to make decisions and who gets the night off from the kids.

But one that has; of course I trust you my love please go have a good time, I’m here if you need me, I’m feeling uncomfortable about this can we talk, and let’s figure it out together, no shame no guilt just you and me being honest with each other I love you — in the same breath.

For the last year I thought I hadn’t found love because of the internet winning over people, and rage and social relevance winning over old-school romance. The only old-school thing that hasn’t changed is the crop who would rather continue to comfortably cheat. Extremes have been at play and I am right bang in the middle of “hey according to her I was hanging with you okay” and “orgy on Saturday”; trying to convince myself as much as everyone else that I was doing the right thing by being honest.

It’s hard enough being single beyond 30, try being single, secure, and also declaring yourself polyamorous — I might as well start saving up for the ‘gentle geriatric care package’. For one.

But here’s the silver lining that revealed itself to me in this course of single-dom.

For as long as I can remember I have defined myself by how I have loved my men. The kind of girlfriend, the kind of wife I’ve been. I sidelined every big professional and personal achievement because I was always obsessed with prioritising the romantic love story in my life. Obsessed with making sure that even if it ended, I was the best girl who did everything I could.

“I did everything I could” has had such an extreme, literal meaning for me that I once made an excel sheet of what I would change to make loving me easier which included “I take too long to tell stories, I’m sorry”. I have held more hurt in the centre of my chest than I deserved and begged for basics way longer than I should have. As a 25-year-old I discovered methods of communication and probable solutions to save relationships that therapists would have found impressive and heartbreaking.

But over the last year I have been forced to examine who I really am without the steady presence of a man. I had to discover flaws and strengths in equal measure and make changes to myself for myself without the validation of a man’s approval and his promise of happily-ever-after making the tediousness worth it.

There were new lists now, and all of the benefits pointed inward.

I wondered multiple times why he hadn’t texted me back yet — till today when I have finally stopped caring.

Every wonder-soaked moment did not need to be shared. And the ones that were, did not alter upon his response or lack thereof. With every passing day being single, I have discovered more and more about myself and for the first time that I can remember, I love me. Irrevocably, absolutely, and unconditionally.

Yesterday I texted my friend that while romance may be in low supply these days, that didn’t change my faith in it or want for it. I told her with a huge breath of relief that my boy-crazy brain had finally slowed down. I didn’t measure my living based on his seeing of my living. I let unanswered texts, unseen stories, and unheard voice notes exist in the air. I learnt myself and remained open — and still have hope that the love I deserved would one day find me.

When I’m least expecting it, of course, it must arrive cinematically. Violins and songs in the air.
Hey, I still gotta be dramatically romantic in my dreams for me. :)