By Jackie Massaro

S was the first girl I publicly held hands with. She reached for me across the table, her eyes widening at the first touch of skin. You’re freezing! S said. She cradled my hands in hers, fingers travelling gently to press out the cold.

I didn’t care about what people passing by our table might think upon seeing two women holding hands and maintaining intense eye contact (gasp!). For three hours, we charmed one another over Bavarian pretzels and beer. We talked about our work as teachers, cities we’d like to visit, dogs wearing sweaters. There was laughter and audacious flirting. It was only our first date; it would only get better from here. Or so I thought.

Maybe I was influenced by Whitney Houston’s romantic vocals piping through the bar, but S made me feel seen. We had the infamous ‘spark’. It was the first time I understood those old black-and-white films, where the hetero couple traipse city streets without regard for anyone else. We were the only people in Philadelphia for those few blocks, walking under the orange eye of City Hall’s clock tower to catch the train. Our breath was rhythmic between shivered laughter. S held me close all the way to the station, her hand learning the curve of my waist, keeping me warm and safe against December’s chill. It was magic.

I had forgotten magic is merely deception. 

S requested selfies from me and responded with abundant emojis. The level of expression of appreciation wasn’t something I was used to, but it would be a bold-faced lie to say that I didn’t enjoy it. S was the last person I talked to every night, the first person I opened my eyes to in the morning. This became my new norm. 

S’s communication accelerated to sexts. Did I just touch myself and think of you? Maybe. I can’t wait to make you cum. 

It wasn’t until I was desired that I believed in my beauty; that I believed I am desirable. When I ask myself why I had let this person have so much control, I know it is because I had never dated another woman before S. At the time, I had no reason to believe that S would ever hurt me. She had proven, through her actions and words, that she was sure about me. Someone being sure about you – especially when you’re sure about them – is one of the best feelings in the world. Looking back, I have no doubt that S was genuine in her interest in and affection for me – perhaps that is also the most heartbreaking detail of this story: she knew exactly what she was doing. 

Our heavy communication and sexting early on prompted an upgrade in the relationship, something more ‘official’, but S went rogue. It had been days and then a week without hearing from her after three months of daily communication. Was she okay? Had I said something wrong? My nights were riddled with insomnia. I read messages for clues to where it went wrong. I checked my lock screen so frequently that I could have learned morse code in half the time. For as tightly wound as my mind was, I had sent a text here, a selfie there, hoping my desperation for acknowledgement wouldn’t bleed through. The read receipts spoke volumes. 

S eventually resurfaced. She apologised for being distant and confessed to a fear of abandonment. I love bombed you, I’m sorry. I’m just so toxic right now. I want to talk to other people. In subsequent therapy sessions, I confessed how stupid I felt for getting so caught up (read: being vulnerable) in something that felt (too) good (to be true). For not knowing what was coming. Was this actually ‘love bombing’? 

As someone who is naturally wary of people, I had betrayed myself. There were red flags from the beginning that I chose to ignore, and admittedly there are those I chose to omit from this piece. There were personal boundaries I neglected, distracted by the high of adoration. Despite the emotional debris, I understood that the greatest betrayal would be closing myself off.

In subsequent relationships, unlearning the thought patterns from my connection with S proved challenging. Though less frequent, I am still repairing the aftershocks of her damage in quiet battles and always when I least expect to be triggered. My worth is not contingent upon my circumstances – specifically, the people I date. 

I did not write this to slander S or our time together. I am simply a writer who is healing. We knowingly invest time and energy into a relationship at the risk of it failing. Although the phrase has exhausted me, my therapist and close friends are right: every connection is a learning experience. I learned that I want someone who communicates before things get bad. I learned that not everyone wants to do the work alongside me. But someone will, someday.