Last night was supposed to be romantic. I’d planned the dinner carefully—her favorite wine, soft music, candlelight. Kat looked stunning, but something felt off. I asked her gently what was wrong, and she didn’t hesitate. “You’re the problem,” she said. I froze. She went on to say maybe I wasn’t a good lover, and that she’d called a car to pick her up. I tried to talk it through, to understand, but she was already pulling away. So I stood, told her I was okay with that, and walked out. The silence between us felt louder than any argument.
We’d had a rough patch recently, but I thought we were healing. Just yesterday, she’d accepted my apology for a fight we’d had. I believed we were moving forward. But last night shattered that illusion. Her words weren’t just cold—they were calculated. It wasn’t about the dinner or the mood. It was about something deeper, something she’d been holding onto. And instead of talking, she chose to wound. I don’t know if it was resentment, disappointment, or something else entirely. I just know it hurt more than I expected.
Kat has always been complex—elegant, sharp, emotionally guarded. She loves being courted, adored, admired. But intimacy? That’s where things falter. She wants to be wine-and-dined, not bedded. I’ve tried to respect that, to meet her where she is. But last night made me wonder if she ever truly wanted connection, or just the performance of it. I’m not angry. I’m just tired. Tired of guessing, of walking on eggshells, of trying to be enough for someone who won’t let me in.
I keep replaying the moment she stood up, phone in hand, waiting for her ride. There was no hesitation, no regret. Just detachment. And I realized then that maybe I’ve been holding onto something that’s already gone. Maybe she’s been gone for a while, and I just refused to see it. I wanted to believe in us, in the possibility of repair. But you can’t fix something when only one person is trying. And last night, she made it clear—she’s done trying, if she ever was.
I don’t know what her problem is, and maybe it’s not mine to solve anymore. I gave her space, respect, effort. I showed up. But love isn’t just about showing up—it’s about being received. And I wasn’t. I was tolerated, maybe even resented. That realization stings, but it also frees me. I don’t have to keep chasing someone who’s already decided I’m not what she wants. I can walk away knowing I tried, knowing I didn’t quit first.
So here I am, sitting with the fallout of a dinner that turned into a goodbye. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—it was quiet, final, and strangely dignified. I’ll miss what I hoped we could be. But I won’t miss feeling like I’m always one step behind her expectations. Maybe this is the end of the road. And maybe that’s okay.
