Patrick always told me we needed more time. More time before living together. More time before getting engaged. More time before committing to anything real.
But the moment I inherited a fully paid-off apartment? Suddenly, he was ready. And that’s when I realized something heartbreaking—he was never truly in love with me.
For years, I watched my friends build beautiful lives with partners who genuinely cherished them. Meanwhile, I played the role of the third wheel, always smiling through the loneliness. I joked about becoming a cat lady—even though I didn’t even own a cat.
So, when Patrick noticed me at a bar two years ago, I thought, Finally. My turn. He was charming, engaging, and made me feel seen in a way no one else had.
I fell for it. Hard.
For two years, I ignored the little red flags—the lack of effort, his refusal to talk about the future, and how he still lived with his mom without any plans to move out.
“We don’t know each other well enough yet,” he’d say, often while scrolling on his phone.
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