I was once you. I was perfect for him.
I see your pictures on Facebook, married to the guy I thought I was destined to marry.
I haven't met you, but I know your type. You're quiet, a little shy, smart. There's something about you that makes you self-conscious. I think it's your crooked teeth. He meets you and instantly flirts in a shy, feminine way. You play it off like you aren't interested. So he tries harder.
You become inseparable. First, you're going for coffee and he makes even Starbucks seem magical. It will be the place you go together. One by one, he adds places that are special only to the two of you.
And he's funny. When you're sad, his priority is making you smile. If you meet his mother, I suspect she's the reason for this. He doesn't like to drink, but you're having so much fun you barely miss drinking your one glass of wine at the end of the day.
He loves to shop. He dyes your hair for you. You walk through SoHo and Greenwich Village for hours looking for the perfect pair of boots and he creates little inside jokes about each of the places you visit. He convinces you to change your hair and tells you what a strong powerful woman you are. You're independent and smart and can do anything.
You remark on the beauty of a girl passing by in the park. He loves this. He asks what you think of other girls. He doesn't ask to bring them home with you, he's just happy you think other girls are beautiful. One of his old girlfriends was crazy -jealous and would fight any girl he found attractive.
You feel like the coolest girlfriend on the planet. You are perfect for him. He tells you all the reasons why he is perfect for you. He writes you love notes, decorated, because they have to look nice. He talks about how cute and small you are, and how you fit perfectly in his arms, and how no one massages your back like he does.
You're the best girlfriend because you wear tights and boots with your dresses. You realize you used to wear boring sweats when you left the house and you look prettier than when you first met. You wonder what he saw in you that first day with your hair back in a ponytail, fuzzy strands falling out near your temples.
At lunch, he keeps looking over your shoulder in the restaurant. It's like he wants you to notice. You finally stop trying to have a conversation and look over your shoulder. A pretty girl is sitting alone reading a book, wearing rainbow tights under her black skirt, a pink skull on her black sweatshirt. She looks adorable. It's 55 degrees out and you're wearing pants.
You need girlfriends, so you join a book club. They drink wine and laugh a lot and don't care what your boyfriend says. He asks if they allow men in the book club, but this is your thing and you tell him it's ladies only. He sends you texts about missing his girl, and a bath is ready when you get home.
At the end of the year, your book club has a night out. He offers to make dinner for the ladies and be your designated driver. He makes roasted chicken with asparagus and spinach salad. He wears an apron, serves wine (an olive branch to you), and the ladies tell you how lucky you are.
He drives your squad around town, complimenting their accessories and making everyone laugh. He's in. They love him and you're proud to call him yours.
He starts spending time with you and your friends. One of them says to be careful or she'll steal him. She jokes, but something is off. He's texting with your friends and he starts drinking wine. Your friends ditch the books and start a wine club, and he's invited.
They go out and get drunk and he has a great time. You are boring and mad and find reasons not to go. He tells you to relax your brows so you don't get wrinkles in your forehead.
I see selfie after selfie on his Facebook page. You are missing from his posts. I check your page. His stepmom still sends you birthday messages and you post photos with your family. He documents his flight home from a business trip to see his new girlfriend.
My heart hurts, because I was once you. I was perfect for him. He was in a hotel with another girl at the exact time I was telling his stepmom that I was sure we'd get married. When he broke up with me for the fifth time, a switch finally flipped and I did not run back to him.
I want you to know that you will be okay. Someday you will walk into a Starbucks and won't care what his favorite drink is. You will have a confidence (and a wardrobe) that he helped build. You will know how to dress yourself.
You will go to a movie and order Skittles without thinking about the time they melted in his hand and smeared a rainbow on his shirt. You will meet a new man who looks you in the eye and has no idea there is a girl in tights sitting at the corner table. And he will only look at you.