For those who just lost someone

I never thought there would come a time when I'd actually listen to Mariah Carey's "Bye Bye." I used to think songs like this were so cringe. In my mind, it was always simple: if a man chooses someone else over you, then he's clearly not worth your time. You forget him, move on, and that's it. At least, that's what I believed. I thought heartbreak only lingers when you allow yourself to hold on to negative emotions. I really believed that if you just decided to let go, you'd be fine. But here I am. Wide awake at night, feeling a kind of pain I never imagined I'd experience at thirty-three. It's strange how life humbles you like that—how it quietly proves that some things are easier said than lived. If I'm being honest, I thought my life would look different by now. I imagined I'd be married, spending quiet nights watching Netflix, sharing small, ordinary moments with someone who chose me the same way I chose them. Instead, I'm here tonight, staring at the moon like it might have answers, talking to it like it understands, asking the same question over and over: how did it turn out this way? I'll be honest—I am still mending a broken heart. Sometimes I still miss the version of him that I created in my mind. On quiet nights, I catch myself imagining the plans we once talked about, wondering if maybe there could still be a chance for us. But deep down, I know I can no longer allow myself to stay in that place. The reason I started writing this journey is simple: this is how I am learning to let him go. I don't know if sharing my story will truly work, but I hope it does. I hope it reaches people like me—those who once believed mixed signals meant hope, those who forgot how to move forward, and those who recently lost someone and feel stuck between holding on and letting go. Maybe through these words, someone will realize that they are not alone. In 2024, I made a promise to myself: if no one came into my life that year, I would try to go out open my heart and start dating again in 2025. But when the new year arrived, life became chaotic. I was busy planning trips, working endless overtime to fund my travels, and trying to keep up with the never-ending bills. My parents also decided to spend Christmas and New Year with us in Dubai. Despite the financial and emotional stress, it was all worth it. It was the first time since I left the Philippines that we were able to celebrate together as a complete family. Before I even realized it, half the year had already passed. And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, life was quietly preparing me for lessons I never expected to learn. That was when I met the first guy who made me interested in romance again. He was much younger than me. I would sometimes catch him looking at me from under his lashes, the kind of glance that makes you wonder if you imagined it. But hold your horses—he isn't the main male character in my story. He isn't the reason I decided to write this semi-journal, semi-self-help book about the mind and the heart. Still, knowing this part of my story helped me understand something important: the difference between mixed signals and assumptions. For a short time, I believed he was sending me mixed signals. But looking back now, he probably wasn't. Mixed signals mean someone gives you a real reason to believe they like you. In truth, he didn't. Maybe he was a little attracted to me—that might explain why he asked for my i********: account after we had exchanged a few conversations. But the truth is, I will never really know. And honestly, that's okay. I've had my i********: account since 2015. I'm not the kind of person who curates a mysterious persona online. I post whatever I want, almost like it's my digital diary. I always believed that's what social media was for—sharing life as it is. Maybe that's why people joke that those of us who still use f*******: are practically obsolete. But I wasn't paying attention to those trends. I was too busy minding my own business, working hard, and somewhere along the way, almost forgetting to live. So let's call this guy B2—short for Baby Boy Number Two. Yes, there is technically a Baby Boy Number One, but he's barely relevant to the story. I simply admired his height and looks, but personality-wise, there was nothing there. B2, however, was different. He had a charming smile—the kind that could literally light up your day. He was from Latin America, which added a little extra intrigue, though I'm not sure if that really mattered. What mattered more was how I felt when we talked. Even though he was about my height—and I usually prefer taller men—I realized I liked him. Not because of how he looked, but because of how he made me feel. When we talked, I felt those butterflies again. The kind I had almost forgotten existed. And once I recognized that feeling, I accepted it. At one point, I even started comparing us to Zendaya and Tom Holland. Yes, it got to that level. My feelings grew deeper as time went by, which was inevitable since we were coworkers. We saw each other often. But there was always one reality I couldn't ignore: he was much younger than me. That difference became even more obvious in the way we communicated. As a millennial, I grew up believing in simple courtesies—replying when you see a message, acknowledging someone when they reach out. But with him, there were times when he would simply seenzone my messages. And every time it happened, I found myself thinking: What the hell? Maybe it's just a generational thing. I don't fully understand this Gen Z trend of maintaining a "mysterious" presence by replying late—or not replying at all. For someone like me, silence doesn't feel mysterious. It just feels confusing. I have always been someone who romanticizes things. I tend to create stories in my head, sometimes filling in the gaps with hope and imagination. Because of that, I needed another perspective—someone who could look at the situation from the outside. So I turned to a good friend. She had watched my journey closely, especially the way I had been trying to change and improve myself. She also noticed the quiet moments between B2 and me—the subtle glances we exchanged when we thought no one was looking. When she told me she had seen it too, it gave me hope. Delulu! A blind leading a blind. Duh. In fact, she became our unofficial "shipper," cheering for something to happen between us. Her excitement only fueled mine. I started believing that maybe, eventually, it would turn into something real. I began finding small excuses to be around him. I would casually walk into the area where he was assigned, pretending to chat with other colleagues. I would leave without speaking to him directly, while my friend observed from a distance. Later, she would tell me that he watched me walks away, his eyes carrying what looked like disappointment. Hearing that made me feel strangely validated. Of course, this was still my interpretation—another story I might have been building in my mind. Around this time, I started noticing something else: the unhealthy changes creeping into my life as I get older. I caught myself thinking, This can't be it. I refuse to feel like I'm fading. I wanted to feel vibrant again. I wanted to look and feel younger than the age I believed was slowly defining me. So I made a decision. I began taking care of myself in ways I had neglected for years. I started going to the gym consistently. Within just one month, people around me noticed the difference. I lost seven kilograms—something I had struggled with for a long time and had nearly given up on. My mornings became disciplined. I would wake up before dawn for my 5 a.m. shifts, making time to work out even when my body begged for more sleep. My breakfast was simple—usually just a banana and black coffee. I was determined to change. I wanted to feel confident in my own skin again. For years, once I crossed thirty, I felt like I had slowly lost something. I believed my metabolism had slowed, my face had begun to age, and the attention I used to receive when I was younger had quietly disappeared. Somewhere along the way, I had accepted that as my reality. But after my transformation, something shifted. I began noticing that familiar look again—the one men give when they suddenly see you differently. And yet, despite all the effort I poured into improving myself, B2's behavior toward me remained largely the same. Yes, there were moments when I saw excitement in his eyes when we spoke. Sometimes I sensed admiration there too. I know the difference in the way a man looks when something about you has changed. Still, I couldn't ignore the question that lingered beneath it all: Was I really transforming for myself... or was I still chasing validation from someone else? From him? That realization would eventually become one of the most important lessons in my journey. I didn't realize when it began, but slowly I found myself becoming frustrated—entangled in a version of the story that I had created in my own mind. I wanted more of his attention. I wanted him to chase after me. I wanted him to be expressive about liking me, the way men used to be when I was younger. I wanted reassurance, confirmation, validation—more and more of it. After all, he was the one who approached me first. Somewhere inside, I expected him to be the one to clearly say that he liked me. Instead, I found myself feeling strangely unhappy... and a little lonely. It's a peculiar feeling—when you start receiving attention from many people, yet the only attention you truly want is from the one person who isn't giving it to you. Looking back, I realized part of my agitation came from deeper: I was trying to rush things. I wanted to be in a relationship so badly that I was ready to hold onto the first man who showed interest in me. Even when I tried to convince myself that my feelings weren't real, it was already too late. My eyes had already chosen him. My focus had already settled. A friend once suggested that I try dating other men, just to keep my options open. But I refused. I liked him—and only him. Then, little by little, I started noticing the red flags. My feelings became unpredictable. When I saw him, I liked him again. But when I didn't, I realized I was actually fine without him. It was confusing. At times, it almost felt like he had managed to make me believe that I was the problem in the story—that I was the red flag. Sometimes it was my ego who says enough. You deserve better. You had set your satndard so high, so why are you lowering it now. But sometimes it's hard to convince yourself. Eventually, I decided the healthiest thing to do was to forget about him. But strangely, the moment I started pulling away, he became friendlier. And just like that, my emotions would spark again. I'd feel excited when he talked to me... only to feel irritated the next day when he ignored my message in the middle of what seemed like a good conversation. I hated the version of myself that felt the need to message first. And more often than not, my last message would sit there—seen, unanswered—as if ignoring me had become his habit. What troubled me even more was how upset I felt when I saw him talking to another girl. It wasn't love I felt in those moments—again, it was my ego being bruised. That was when I realized something important: this situation was slowly turning me into someone I didn't like. So the next time he tried to be friendly again, I chose something different. I chose to ignore him. Instead, I pushed forward with a different goal—the commitment I had made to become a better version of myself. So when my friend invited me to join her in Bali, I said yes. She joked that I would meet someone new there and forget about B2 completely. I smiled and agreed, even though deep down I wasn't sure that would happen. Because after working in an industry where I meet hundreds of people from different nationalities, cultures, and backgrounds—many of them attractive—I learned something important: Looks are rarely the problem. Connection is. Chemistry is. And those things can't be forced, rushed, or replaced simply because someone new appears. Sometimes the real journey isn't about finding the right person. Sometimes it's about finding your way back to yourself first.