CORRECTIONS OF THE PAST

I USE TO LOVE HIM

Like I said everything that glistens isn't gold. And just because it feels good doesn't mean it is. Now don't get me wrong Zac was and still is a "Great" man. He just had a lot of flaws. Some he acknowledged but others that he simply chose to ignore. Those ignored ones were triggering.

His accountability or lack of is what got us into the current situation we are in that's dragging beyond repair at the present. His inability to see his fault at times was a flaw I often times tried to overlook, but as time went on I could no longer overlook them. Especially when his response was always just letting it go and starting fresh without ever actually trying to fix the said issues. And those issues began to pile on top of each other until I could see the pile in my head swaying from the overload. I swore at any moment the stack would topple over and that's when I decided enough was just that -ENOUGH.

Why would I leave one bad situation to go into another bad situation and decide to stay. If neither man could see my worth after the honeymoon stage was over then I needed to see my own worth and for once I was finally going to look out for me.

You know the saying "Love is Blind". Yeah, well that was me after experiencing so much good with this man I couldn't fathom a bad fiber in his body so when he unintentionally hurt me to my core with one of his thoughtless flaws, I began to see him in a new light and though I've tried not to dim his light in my eyes. His bulb wasn't shining bright anymore instead it was as if we were in a dim lit room with no affection, no attraction, no love, no lust no anything just navigating and I honestly wasn't even sure anymore.

Was he who I needed or wanted — and vice versa? And that alone scared me. Because the truth was, I didn't know anymore.

Zac had this way of making me feel like the world revolved around us when things were good. His presence filled every room, his laughter became the soundtrack to my days, and his touch... it used to feel like home. But lately, home felt cold. It was like we were living in two different seasons — I was trying to blossom in spring while he was stuck in a never-ending winter.

"Zac, I've been calling you nonstop," I said one night, my voice trembling between frustration and fear. It wasn't like him not to answer.

When he finally walked into the hotel hours later, I could smell the faint trace of liquor and the night on him — that mix of sweat, cologne, and something that wasn't familiar anymore.

"You trippin', Tima," he said, brushing past me like my worry was an inconvenience. "I just needed air. Damn, can't I get a minute?"

A minute. That's all he ever needed. But those minutes started turning into hours, hours into nights, and nights into days of silence and guessing games.

"I'm not mad that you needed a minute," I said softly, trying to keep my tone from shaking. "I'm mad because you didn't think to tell me. You just disappear like my feelings don't matter."

He stopped, turned, and stared at me for a long second. His eyes — once warm — now held this coldness I couldn't explain. "You always think it's about you, Fatima. Everything ain't about you."

That sentence cut deeper than he realized.

Because everything wasn't about me — and that was the problem. I had spent so much time trying to be his peace that I forgot I was supposed to have peace too.

I remember sitting on the edge of the bed that night, the TV flickering in the background, showing some old sitcom we used to laugh at. But the sound barely registered. My mind was running laps around the same questions: When did we stop being us? When did love start feeling like a burden instead of a blessing?

Zac came out of the shower, towel hanging low on his hips, his face unreadable. He looked tired — not just physically but emotionally drained, like love itself had become a job.

"You gon' keep lookin' at me like that?" he asked, his tone defensive.

"I'm just trying to figure out what happened to us."

He chuckled — a humorless sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Ain't nothin' happened. You overthinkin' again."

Overthinking. That's what he called it every time I tried to communicate. Every time I wanted clarity, honesty, effort. He called it overthinking; I called it wanting to be seen.

We made love that night, but it didn't feel like love. It felt like habit — like two people trying to remember what passion used to taste like. And afterward, when he rolled over and drifted off, I just lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering how something so right could feel so wrong.

The next morning, I woke up early, ordered some breakfast and waited for him to join me. He didn't. The plate got cold, and so did I.

Days turned into weeks. The same arguments recycled themselves — accountability, communication, effort, tone, respect. We were fighting ghosts of the same problems we kept burying alive. Zac's favorite solution was to "start fresh." But how do you start fresh when you're standing in the same dirt?

"Zac, we can't keep doing this," I told him one Sunday evening. "We can't just sweep things under the rug and act like they didn't happen."

He didn't look up from his phone. "So what you want me to do, Fatima? Sit here and argue every damn day?"

"I want you to care enough to fix it."

He sighed, dropped the phone, and looked at me with that mix of irritation and exhaustion I'd come to know too well. "I'm tired of talkin' in circles. You always find somethin' wrong."

"Because something is wrong," I snapped. "You don't listen. You don't take accountability for how your actions affect me. You say you love me, but love isn't supposed to feel like this."

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You talk like you perfect."

"I never said I was," I whispered. "But I'm trying. I just wish you would too."

He stood up, ran his hand down his face, and muttered, "Man, I can't do this right now."

That was the last conversation before I realized silence had become our language.

I started noticing things — the way he'd scroll through his phone more than he'd look at me, the way his "I love yous" came out of routine instead of emotion, the way he no longer reached for my hand in public. It was all the little things that screamed big truths.

Still, I stayed. I stayed because I remembered the version of him that once made me feel safe. I stayed because I thought maybe love could heal what ego broke. But healing requires participation, and Zac had already checked out emotionally.

One night sitting alone in my room that familiar knot in my stomach had me up restless queasy. I grabbed my diary and wrote:

"Everything that glistens isn't gold. Love can feel good and still be wrong. Sometimes, the same person who brings you peace can also be the storm."

Tears slipped down my cheeks as I read it back. It was the truth I'd been running from — the truth that the version of Zac I loved wasn't the one standing in front of me anymore.