Chapter 3.4: Dear Diary, Why Me?

 

Days turned into weeks.

I poured myself into work, the gym, books, and long drives with my favorite playlists echoing through the speakers. Every now and then I'd catch myself wondering if he thought about me too, but the questions no longer kept me awake.

At least, that's what I told myself.

The truth was, I still had questions.

A lot of them.

And eventually, I got tired of asking everyone else.

So I started asking myself.

I opened my diary.

At first, I thought I was just going to vent.

You know...

The usual:

Why is this man so damn confusing?

Why did I even care this much?

Why did he have to be so cute?

Why couldn't he just tell me the truth?

But something strange happened when I started writing.

My diary wouldn't let me lie.

I couldn't write the story from the version of myself who wanted to be right.

I had to write it from the version of myself who had actually lived it.

And that meant being honest.

Really honest.

I had to admit that I wasn't simply angry because he was married.

I was hurt because I had trusted him.

I had asked him directly.

Are you single?

Is there someone who thinks they're with you?

Do you have children?

And he had told me yes to the first question and no to the others.

So the question that kept coming back wasn't:

Why didn't he choose me?

It was:

Why me?

What was it about me that made him comfortable lying?

What did he see when he looked at me?

Did he think I was naive?

Did he think I wouldn't find out?

Did he think I would eventually disappear?

Or was he simply too busy, too cowardly, too conflicted, or too emotionally unavailable to have an uncomfortable conversation?

Because honestly...

How hard would it have been?

"Hey, Polyana. I appreciate you, but I don't want you coming around for personal reasons."

That's it.

Done.

Would I have been disappointed?

Absolutely.

Would I have survived?

Obviously.

I would've walked away with my dignity intact.

Instead, I was left trying to decipher a man who apparently didn't have the time (or perhaps the courage) to give me the one thing I actually wanted.

The truth.

And the irony of it all?

I had been trying to give him exactly that.

The last few times I saw him, I had started leaving little pieces of symbolism behind.

The first was a small blue, heart-shaped lapis lazuli crystal.

Lapis lazuli has long been associated with truth, wisdom, inner vision, communication, and the courage to speak honestly. The deep blue color reminded me of the kind of truth that isn't always comfortable but is still necessary.

A blue heart felt appropriate.

If I couldn't get honesty from him...

Maybe I could at least leave a little reminder of it behind.

Then came the green toy car.

A tiny little car.

Because, apparently, I have never been able to resist turning my feelings into automotive symbolism.

And with it, I left a lucky two-dollar bill.

Truth.

Luck.

Hope.

Maybe I was unconsciously trying to give him the things I wished he would give me.

Then came Tuesday.

I remember the day because the whole thing felt so absurd that it almost became funny.

I came through the back door of the shop and saw him in what appeared to be a heated conversation with someone.

I didn't ask questions.

I didn't interrupt.

I simply dropped off a Benjamin.

One hundred dollars.

Then I walked away.

I wasn't trying to buy anything.

I wasn't asking for anything.

I think, in some strange way, I was just trying to leave something behind without having to explain myself.

I got into my car.

A few moments later, he came after me.

He looked...

Frazzled.

Like he'd just been handed a problem he absolutely did not want to deal with.

He tried to give the money back.

I said no.

He insisted.

I refused.

Then he said something along the lines of:

"This is getting weird."

I looked at him.

"It's only going to get weirder."

And then I got into my car.

I drove away.

Honestly?

I knew exactly what was happening.

But I played dumb.

Maybe because admitting that I understood would've required a conversation neither of us seemed capable of having.

Then my phone buzzed.

His message said:

"Polyana, I appreciate your kindness, you seem like a great person, but I am not accepting this from you, please don't bring me any more gifts or handouts. Thank you Polyana."

I stared at it.

There it was.

Finally.

A boundary.

A clear sentence.

A direct request.

And strangely enough, I respected it immediately.

My response was simple:

"As you wish."

Then I blocked him.

That was it.

No dramatic goodbye.

No final speech.

No attempt to make him understand.

I just...

Stopped.

And that's when I started writing.

Maybe that was the real gift hidden inside all of this.

The moment I stopped trying to get an explanation from him, I finally had enough silence to hear myself.

I began writing everything down.

The good.

The embarrassing.

The ridiculous.

The romantic.

The delusional.

The moments when I thought I was being intuitive.

The moments when I was clearly projecting.

The moments when I confused attention with intention.

The moments when I genuinely believed there might be something real underneath all of it.

And slowly, the story started changing.

It stopped being:

Why doesn't he want me?

And became:

Why did I want someone who couldn't give me what I needed?

That question hurt more.

But it was also liberating.

Then came August 5.

I published the first chapter.

I didn't know whether he would ever see it.

I didn't tag him.

I didn't send it to him.

I didn't tell him to read it.

I simply put the story into the world.

Within twenty-four hours...

He had unfollowed me.

I laughed.

Not because it hurt.

Because, honestly, it was almost funny.

Well... somebody noticed.

Maybe he read it.

Maybe someone else saw it and told him.

Maybe he simply decided he'd had enough of my presence on his feed.

Who knows?

And that's the thing.

I don't know.

For once...

I don't need to know.

But part of me still wondered:

Why couldn't he have just said sorry?

Why couldn't he have said, "My bad"?

Would that have cost him too much?

Would admitting he had handled things poorly somehow make him less of a man?

Or maybe...

Maybe he finally realized that he had made mistakes.

Maybe the unfollow wasn't anger.

Maybe it was his own version of closure.

Maybe he thought I was bad luck.

After all, things seemed to start shaking up around him after I came into the picture.

Or maybe that's just another story my mind could create when it doesn't have enough information.

And I've learned something about myself:

My imagination is extremely talented.

It can build an entire universe out of one smile.

So this time, I decided not to.

I wasn't going to assign meaning to the unfollow.

I wasn't going to investigate.

I wasn't going to search for hidden messages.

I wasn't going to turn silence into an answer.

I was going to let silence be silence.

And then I asked myself one final question.

If he had walked into my life for a reason...

What if the reason wasn't for me to have him?

What if the reason was for me to finally understand what I don't want?

I don't want secrets.

I don't want triangles.

I don't want to compete.

I don't want to be someone's escape.

I don't want to wonder whether I'm being chosen or simply entertained.

I want intention.

I want honesty.

I want a man who has the courage to tell me the truth even when the truth is uncomfortable.

And I want to be the kind of woman who can hear that truth and walk away when it isn't aligned with what I deserve.

So I closed my diary.

For the first time in months, I wasn't waiting for an answer from him.

I had found one in myself.

I still wondered what would happen if we ever crossed paths again.

Because life has a funny way of putting people in the same room when you're finally convinced you've moved on.

I just didn't know that the next time I would see him...