I did not feel like going to the camp after everything that had happened the day before, but I had already committed, so I went. Strangely enough, the camp went smoothly. It was my first time arranging one, and I had relied heavily on my colleague for help.
He kept calling me over again and again, and it made me so embarrassed. My friends were there, and I knew they would misunderstand. He matched the description of my library crush far too well, and one of them looked suspicious from the start. To make things worse, one of the guys who liked me was there too. It felt like the universe had brought every possible complication into one room.
At one point, he even called me over and told my colleague, right to my face, that I looked weird in scrubs and that I wasn't like that at the library. I was furious and humiliated. No one knew I knew him before. I had told everyone—including my colleague—that I met him for work. And he knew this, yet he still revealed it casually, as if it meant nothing. I couldn't understand why he would do that.
He was clingy the entire day. I was trying to keep my distance, yet he would call me over and whisper things in my ear. It was embarrassing. Old me would have melted; old me would have died happily in that moment. But now that I didn't see him that way anymore, it was inconvenient, uncomfortable, and honestly just stressful. I didn't want people assuming I was committed when I wasn't. Why would he make it harder?
The day itself was hectic. I spent the entire time running around. He forced me to take a break, which I eventually did. The event was a success. It was fun. I was proud of myself. Proud of organizing something this big for the first time. We took pictures with his team, wrapped the event up, and left. Later, I texted his team to thank them, and then I fell sick. Fever from overworking myself.
The teasing started the next day. Everyone kept saying how cute we would look together, how we liked all the same things, how we should "just get together." Even my grandmother said it, making my embarrassment multiply. He told me later that his friend had said the same thing to him. But the meaning was different now. I didn't like him romantically anymore. I just liked his company.
And even back when I was limerent, when I obsessed over him, I had calculated a million scenarios and they all ended with the same conclusion. We would not work. Not in the long run. I would be the one compromising. I would be the one adjusting every day. Our core values didn't match. We both needed someone who could take care of us, and that was the worst possible combination. He couldn't take care of my emotional needs, and I couldn't take care of his. It was doomed.
Later, he posted something online about the event. And it hurt. Not because I wanted credit—I didn't do it for that—but because he praised my colleague endlessly and didn't mention me or the volunteers even once. My colleague deserved every compliment, but it felt like the rest of us didn't exist. It stood out to me because I had been in contact with him for two weeks about this camp, and he had kept delaying everything. He always had excuses. Even on the day my colleague called him, he had ignored me. He had told me no so many times that I finally just handed the responsibility to my colleague. And with one five-minute call, he finalized the entire thing. The same issue he had raised with me—lack of confirmation—was suddenly no longer a problem.
It made me angry. Not because he favored someone else, but because I finally saw how little value he placed on me. I had been taken for granted. And that was the moment I decided to break what was left of our emotional bond. Things only went downhill after that.
For the first time in so long, I had a day off from clinic. I had been trying to "work on myself" and ended up starting too many things at once. I took it too far. Between arranging the camp, managing volunteers, handling payments, contacting the venue, ordering materials, preparing for my research symposium, and working at a clinic after my day job, I pushed myself past my limit. My days were twelve-hour workdays followed by four hours of extra work. Then sleep. Then repeat. On top of that, I caught a viral infection. I had no time to rest. No time for myself. Nothing.
So today, when I simply went to the clinic and came back home early, it struck me how easily we take things for granted—our health, our free time, the ability to spend time with loved ones, to step outside without pressure, to just exist without sinking under stress. These are all blessings we never notice until we lose them.
I had been frustrated when I was free, and I had wasted those days doing nothing. Then I overloaded myself and spent weeks suffering. The sickness that followed was intense. I couldn't eat. I threw up every morning. My joints ached. My whole body hurt. Even lifting my arms felt exhausting. I kept pushing myself even when my body and mind had given up. I still am. Just writing this is making me sleepy.
The truth is simple: nothing is worth sacrificing your health. Nothing. I was scared of falling behind, of not earning enough, of being too slow. I wanted to compress two years of growth into one. But in the end, I suffered mentally, emotionally, physically. I tried to be fast and efficient, but the opposite happened. My progress collapsed. I worked six days out of ten and spent four days unable to function.
It wasn't worth it. At all.
And somewhere in all this exhaustion, I still thought about him.
Limiting contact with him was supposed to bring me peace. I thought distance would help me breathe again. And for a few days, it did. A whole week—that was the longest we lasted—before he texted saying he was leaving the organization for good.
My heart dropped.
I thought I would feel relieved, but I just missed him. Already. I hated that feeling. The last message I had sent him was terrible, something I regretted the moment it delivered, and then I deleted it by mistake. The guilt sat on my chest and didn't leave.
I kept going back and forth between keeping my distance and being terrified of losing him forever. I know I'm bad with goodbyes, but I didn't know I was this terrible.
Eventually I caved. I texted him yesterday just to ease the guilt. I told myself it was normal, that I was just checking in, but the truth was simpler: I needed peace. I didn't want our story to end on a bad note.
While rethinking everything, another truth surfaced. I didn't even want a PhD. The only reason I had obsessed over it was because he was leaving and I thought if I followed the same path, maybe I could remain close to him somehow. The realization horrified me.
So I texted him something normal, casual, safe. Told him how busy I was. Congratulated him again. He sent four replies at first, but by the time I opened my phone, he had deleted three. Only "thanks, it's okay" remained. And honestly, that was enough.
As the guilt faded, something else appeared: clarity. I used to like him so much, but now… it feels different. Softer. Quieter. But what I miss the most is our time at the library. Sometimes it feels like the boy I fell for and the man he became are two different people. Back then, he was calm, soft, peaceful. Long wavy hair, gentle clothes, quiet presence. The version I found later—after work swallowed us both—felt heavier, older, distant in ways that made sense but still hurt.
Maybe that's why everything started feeling off. We met during our "quiet eras," when everything in life was paused and still. I had decided to take things slow. He was the human version of rest. That's literally why I approached him.
Even our last day aligned perfectly—same day, same sunset—as if some unseen hand drew the curtain down.
After that, reality began. He got a job at his college. My house job started too. Suddenly, life was loud again. Busy. Heavy. But back then, even the busiest days felt easy. I barely had patients. He wasn't working yet. Our energies matched in softness. The present version of us didn't match that time anymore.
And then came his NGO job. Department head. Two years older, further along, moving faster. I told myself it made sense, that he was supposed to progress quicker. But the sting was still there. I felt behind because I was drowning while he seemed to float effortlessly. Opportunities ran toward him. People admired him instantly. Meanwhile, I was burning myself out.
Maybe that's why the PhD hurt so much. He had once spoken about it so vaguely. It felt like something unimportant. And then suddenly he got in. Just like that. No struggle. No visible effort. And it pierced me because I had shaped my life around this idea of "fuqr" that he always talked about. I had romanticized sacrifice and simplicity because I thought I could live with him even if he earned nothing. I thought that meant something. But he had never shown commitment. Not once. And here I was, building an entire imaginary future.
The truth is painful: I approached him with the idea of marriage from day one. I imagined him with my family, imagined our home, imagined a future. I was down catastrophically bad.
And then I realized: it wasn't love. It was limerence.
The timing had been perfect. The loneliness, the silence, the novelty—it all aligned. And while I did feel hurt some days, most of that month was peaceful. He brought out a version of me I had forgotten. Soft. Reflective. Alive. And that's what I miss. Not him.
It's the same thing I felt with my best friend. I missed her, yes, but what I really mourned was who I was around her. That softness. That depth. That expansion.
And like her, he was temporary. Beautiful, impactful, but temporary.
Maybe that's all he was meant to be: a season of softness. A reminder. A moment of clarity in the middle of chaos. Something fleeting, brief, but enough to remind me who I can be.
And maybe that's enough.