But looking back, I can see it for what it really was: a lesson wrapped in the illusion of love. Mothey was kind, yes. He was attentive in those brief moments we shared, but there was a difference between attention and intention, a difference I was too blinded to see at the time. He’d text me every few days, never more than a casual “see you later?” or a vague promise of hanging out after the next game. But I took those texts, those half-smiles and easy laughter, and turned them into something bigger. I thought he was giving me his heart, when really, he was only giving me fragments of his time.
In hindsight, it was so clear that his “efforts” were barely there, just enough to keep me around but never enough to hold me close. He never made promises, never showed me in real ways that he wanted more than companionship. And yet, every small gesture—every pat on the shoulder, every night spent on the bleachers watching the stars—felt monumental to me. I made excuses for his lukewarm actions, convincing myself he was just “not big on labels” or “low-key.” But deep down, I think I always knew it wasn’t enough.
I remember one night, sitting next to him under the lights, the coolness of the bleachers beneath us, and feeling like I’d give anything for him to say he wanted something real with me. But he didn’t. He’d just talk about the game, crack a joke, and offer me one of those half-smiles, the kind that hinted at something more but never quite reached it. I didn’t realize it then, but I was holding onto a fantasy I had created, casting him in a role he’d never asked for. I was in love with the idea of being loved by him, not with the person he actually was.
It took me a while, but I eventually learned that I’d mistaken closeness for commitment. Mothey was a “bare minimum” kind of love—a connection that was almost right but never quite enough. He was there, sure, but he wasn’t really present in the way that mattered. I thought that being around him would make me feel whole, but instead, it left me feeling emptier, like I was constantly reaching out to someone who wasn’t really reaching back.
The hardest part was letting go of the version of us that only existed in my mind. I’d convinced myself that if I waited long enough, he’d eventually feel the same way. But sometimes, the truth is that we hold onto things simply because we’re afraid of what we’ll feel if we let them go. In the end, my time with Mothey taught me more about what I wanted from love than he ever could have given me. Love, I realized, is meant to be all in or nothing at all.
So, I let him go. And with that release came clarity—the understanding that real love isn’t something you have to constantly chase or convince someone of. It’s something that is freely given, fully present, and unapologetically certain. Mothey showed me what love wasn’t, and for that, I’m strangely grateful. That first “almost love” may not have filled me, but it left behind a lesson I would carry with me: never settle for fragments when you deserve the whole.
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Pieces of Me
Short Story"Pieces of Me" follows the journey of a young woman stepping into campus life with an open heart but an uncertain path. Eager for connection and meaning, she navigates a series of relationships that each leave a unique imprint on her, from fleeting...