I deserve more. I deserve better. And I will wait for it.

I remember the morning vividly. I woke up, stared at the ceiling, and whispered to myself, “Alex, I can’t do this anymore.” In that moment, I made a decision—one that would shift the entire course of my life. I told myself I was choosing celibacy until I found myself in a stable relationship. It sounded simple, even empowering, but little did I know that it would mean losing someone I had called a friend for nearly three years.

Our story began somewhere in the middle of 2023. To be honest, I wasn’t looking for anything serious at the time. I had just crawled out of two back-to-back talking stages, both of which ended badly—messy, disappointing, leaving me drained. I wasn’t in the right space to want anything fixed or permanent. When I met Alex, it wasn’t love at first sight. Far from it. I didn’t see him and think of forever. He wasn’t “the one.” He was just… there. And when he asked to meet, I didn’t even think about sex, though deep down, I knew that was what he wanted. Against my better judgment, I agreed.

At first, I told myself it was harmless. Just casual. Just filling a void. But soon enough, it became too frequent, too predictable. What started as excitement quickly turned into routine. The moments together lost their spark, and instead of anticipation, I felt boredom creeping in. It was monotonous. Repetitive. I began to dislike the very thing I had agreed to in the first place.

And yet, I also began to notice something unsettling. Maybe it’s true what people say—that the longer you’re intimate with someone, the more your heart starts to trick you into believing it’s love. I wasn’t falling in love with Alex, not really. What I was craving was the feeling of being chosen. I wanted to be wanted—not just for my body, but as a woman, as someone who mattered. I thought Alex was too special for me, and that illusion kept me tied to him far longer than I should have been. Looking back now, it doesn’t break my heart—it disgusts me.

I tried to walk away so many times. There were nights I promised myself, “This is the last time.” And sometimes, I succeeded in pulling away. But most of the time, I failed. I became a victim, not because I craved sex, but because I craved company. Loneliness is a dangerous thing—it makes you compromise, it makes you accept crumbs when you deserve the whole loaf. I didn’t want him for his body, I wanted him for his presence.

The saddest part is that I’ve never experienced a stable relationship in my life. I’ve only imagined what it must feel like to be secure, to be cherished, to be someone’s priority. With Alex, I thought maybe—just maybe—I could catch a glimpse of that. Instead, what I saw was everything I should never desire in a man. The emotional neglect. The lack of communication. The guilt-tripping. I was slowly drowning, and one day, I simply gave up.

I tried to talk to him. I tried to tell him how I felt, how I longed to be more than just a body he called when he was bored. I begged him, in silent ways, to love me—or at least to see me. But every attempt failed. He wouldn’t listen. He didn’t care enough. And then one day, he opened up about finding a new relationship. My heart cracked. Not because I loved him, but because I felt discarded, unworthy. I asked him why he would choose to be with someone else, yet still come to me for sex. His answer wasn’t an apology. He didn’t fight for me. He didn’t choose me. Instead, somehow, he convinced me to take him back—not as a lover, but again as his fallback option, his sneaky link.

I know there are people who would have celebrated this kind of setup. No strings, no expectations, just pleasure. But I’m not built that way. I want commitment. I want a man who sees me, who chooses me, who claims me proudly. I don’t want to be an option—I want to be the choice.

The final blow came when I told Alex I had chosen celibacy. This time, I meant it with every fiber of my being. No more compromises. No more settling. No more giving my body in exchange for scraps of attention. But instead of supporting me, he tried to tear me down. He said I was throwing away our friendship just because of celibacy. He mocked me, saying I was letting go of an opportunity that so many girls would kill to have. He tried every trick in the book to make me feel guilty, to make me abandon my choice, to make me betray myself.

But I didn’t. For once, I stood firm. I said no—not just to him, but to every man who only wanted me for my body and not my soul. I chose myself. And though I lost Alex, I realized that losing someone who never truly valued me is not a loss at all—it’s freedom.

And maybe that’s what healing really is. Not finding someone new to replace the old, but finding the courage to finally say: I deserve more. I deserve better. And I will wait for it.

When he realized he couldn’t convince me to go back, he blocked me. Just like that—three years of talking, laughing, and sharing moments ended with a silent click. At first, it stung. It felt cruel. But then I understood—blocking me wasn’t a punishment, it was closure. It was his way of walking out without looking back, and maybe my freedom disguised itself in that block. Because in the end, he didn’t silence me—I chose to stop chasing him long before he shut the door.

Later, he unblocked me, and we had a conversation that left me shaken but also stronger in my resolve. I found myself asking, “How am I being selfish or self-centered, when I’m choosing celibacy for me? You are not my boyfriend, you are not my husband. In fact, you made it clear when you went into a relationship with another girl while still coming to me for sex. So, who is being selfish here?” I told him plainly that my decision was made, and I would never change it just to make him happy through sex—sex he dangled like a false promise of love, leaving me desperate for attention I’d never receive from him.

Not long after, he insisted on coming to see me, claiming he just wanted to say hi. Against my better judgment, I agreed, but I was clear about one thing: don’t bring alcohol. Yet when he showed up, there it was in his hands—a bottle. I knew what he wanted. He hoped I’d drink, get tipsy, lower my guard, and slip back into the old cycle. But this time, it didn’t happen. I didn’t give in. And when he realized I wouldn’t bend, he became angry—furious even. That anger told me everything I needed to know. He never wanted my company. He never wanted my friendship. All he ever wanted was access to my body.

And in that moment, I finally felt free—not because he left angry, but because I didn’t betray myself. I chose me, and that will always be enough.