Dear beloved reader, let’s take a step back. Stories like these have layers, like peeling an onion—bit by bit, until your eyes sting. If you’ve ever ignored a red flag the very first time, you already know the chaos that awaits.
My name is Masha, or so my friends call me. It’s 2021, and looking back, I can confidently say I was more naive than my age suggested. Don’t judge me yet. My story starts innocently enough, like all tales of heartbreak and hope do.
It was a lazy Saturday. I had my favorite podcast on, and the topic? How to Move On from Heartbreak and Find Your Perfect Match. Oh yes, who doesn’t want the fairytale, the soulmate, the happily-ever-after? But let me rewind for a moment to the breakup that brought me to this podcast.
His name was Nick. He had been my boyfriend for a whole three months. Don’t laugh—it felt like a lifetime to me. I was convinced he was “The One.” We met at a work meeting, the kind where your boss drones on, but fate sits across the room. One small smile, a few exchanged numbers, and just like that, we were an item. Nick had this charm that drew me in immediately, the type that makes you ignore all logical reasoning.
Three weeks into dating, Nick had to travel to Nairobi, leaving me behind in my small, sleepy town in Western Kenya. But love knows no distance, or so I thought. Video calls, late-night texts, and endless phone conversations had me walking on air. When he called me “his girl,” I felt invincible. I told myself, This is it! Love has found me.
Until the day we decided to meet.
He didn’t invite me to Nairobi I suggested it. Nick didn’t offer to pay for my bus fare either, but I brushed it off. “He’s busy,” I reasoned, “He’ll be so happy to see me, it won’t matter who paid for the fare.” Love makes you do foolish things, doesn’t it?
I packed my bags, full of hope and excitement. The six-hour bus ride to Nairobi felt like forever, but I didn’t mind. I daydreamed the whole way about how magical this visit would be. Dinner dates, city lights, laughter, and romance.
As I neared the city, I called Nick to let him know I was almost there. No answer.“Maybe he’s busy,” I thought. I called again. Still no answer. By the time I arrived in the bustling chaos of Nairobi, I had called him seven times. No answer.
Okay, Masha, don’t panic. Maybe he’ll call back.
But then, his phone went off completely. No voicemail, no message, just dead silence.
There I was, standing in Nairobi, a city I barely knew, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. I wanted to cry, but the shock kept me calm. I replayed all the signs I ignored in those three months. How he was always vague about his plans. How he avoided talking about the future. How he’d sometimes disappear for days without a word. But it was too late now.
Nick had dumped me, not with words, but with silence.
Fast forward to that Saturday, months later. Nick had long since blocked me on social media, but I was still the chief stalker, analyzing every picture, every comment, every move he made online. My friends had stopped trying to console me. They’d had enough of my “Nick stories.”
That podcast, though—it gave me hope. Maybe it was time to move on. Maybe I could find a better man.
The next day was Sunday. A fresh start. I got dressed, feeling hopeful. I told myself, Maybe I’ll meet someone today. Maybe church is where good men are hiding.
But, dear reader, you’re not ready for what happened next. Suspense is a cruel mistress, but for now, I’ll leave you wondering. What happened to Masha next? Did she find her perfect match, or did the madness continue?
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