Chapter One: The man everyone thought was perfect
Fidel had always believed that love was supposed to make a person feel wanted.
Not just through expensive gifts or promises of a beautiful future, but through the little things: a phone call in the middle of a busy day, a message asking if she had eaten, or a simple “I miss you” that came without being requested.
For three years, she had loved Raymond, a man who seemed to have everything it took to be the perfect partner.
He was hardworking, responsible, and determined to build a good future. As an architect overseeing a major construction project, Raymond spent most of his days buried in drawings, meetings, and deadlines. He was the kind of man people admired—the kind parents hoped their daughters would find.
Fidel admired those qualities too. She loved his ambition and the way he took his responsibilities seriously. She knew he loved her, and she had never doubted his desire to build a future with her.
Yet lately, she had begun to wonder why being loved could feel so lonely.
Her phone lay beside her on the bed, its screen facing upward. She glanced at it for what felt like the hundredth time.
Raymond had promised to call that evening.
It was nearly ten o'clock.
She picked up the phone and opened their chat. Their last conversation was a brief exchange from earlier that afternoon.
I'll call you later, baby. Work is crazy today.
Fidel had replied with a heart and told him to take care of himself.
She had meant it. She always meant it.
But she had hoped that, somewhere between the meetings and the construction site, he would find a few minutes for her.
She typed, Are you still busy?
She stared at the message before sending it, then deleted it.
She didn't want to be the girlfriend who constantly demanded attention. She didn't want to make him feel guilty for working hard. More than anything, she didn't want affection to become something she had to beg for.
Her phone vibrated suddenly.
Her face brightened, but the notification was from a colleague.
Fidel sighed and dropped the phone onto the bed.
“Are you waiting for somebody, or are you expecting that phone to give you a job?” Patty asked from the doorway.
Fidel turned. Her childhood best friend stood there with an amused expression, holding a bowl of snacks.
“Very funny,” Fidel muttered.
Patty entered the room and sat beside her. “Raymond?”
Fidel didn't answer immediately.
“That man is probably still at the construction site,” she said at last.
“And you're defending him again.”
“I'm not defending him, Patty. I'm just saying he's busy.”
Patty shook her head. “I know he's busy. The question is, does he know you're lonely?”
The words landed more heavily than Fidel expected.
“I'm not lonely.”
“Then why have you checked your phone twelve times in the last ten minutes?”
Fidel opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.
Patty's expression softened. “Fidel, I'm not saying he doesn't love you. I'm asking whether you're happy.”
Fidel looked away.
She wished Patty had asked her something easier. Happiness was becoming a difficult question, especially when the person she loved wasn't a bad man.
The following morning, Fidel went to work at the human resources office where she was employed. She answered emails, reviewed documents, and attended meetings, carrying out her responsibilities as usual.
To everyone around her, she appeared perfectly fine.
She smiled when her colleagues joked, participated in conversations, and completed her assignments. But whenever her phone lit up, a small part of her hoped it would be Raymond.
By lunchtime, he had sent a short message.
Good morning, baby. Hope your day is going well. I'll call you when I can.
She read it twice.
It was a sweet message. She knew that. But she couldn't help noticing how often when I can be replaced I'll make time.
She replied, Thank you. Hope work goes well too.
Then she returned to her desk.
That evening, Fidel and Patty went out for dinner. Patty had insisted that she needed fresh air, good food, and a break from staring at her phone.
As they ate, Patty watched her carefully.
“Have you told him exactly how you feel?”
“Many times.”
“And what does he say?”
“That he loves me. That he's working hard for our future. Things will get better when this project is completed.”
“Do you believe him?”
Fidel put down her fork.
“Yes,” she answered quietly. “I believe he loves me.”
Patty waited.
Fidel swallowed. “But sometimes, I wish he would love me in ways I could actually feel.”
For the first time that evening, she said the truth without trying to soften it.
She wanted the calls, the planned dates, the unexpected messages, and the feeling that someone could be busy and still remember her. She wanted to be part of Raymond's present, not simply the future he was working so hard to provide.
Was that too much to ask?
Later that night, she lay in bed thinking about the man she loved. She remembered his laughter, his kindness, and the way he spoke about the home they would one day share.
She didn't want to lose him.
But she was beginning to understand that loving someone and feeling loved by them were not always the same thing.
And for the first time in three years, Fidel allowed herself to ask a question she had been avoiding.
What happens when the person who loves you is also the person who makes you feel alone?
