Rejection can make you become something you’re not. I learned that the hard way.

For a long time, I was that girl, wild, confident, and untouchable. I had fun. I had sex. I did things that made me feel in control, even when I wasn’t. Love? I didn’t believe in it. I believed in attention, in being wanted, in always staying one step ahead before someone could hurt me. Every relationship was a transaction, with each person having their own need to be satisfied.

Then I met David.

He was different. Calm, focused, and so unbothered that it annoyed me. He didn’t flirt or try to impress me. He didn’t even seem attracted to me, and that, for reasons I still can’t explain, made me want him more.

It wasn’t just attraction; it was curiosity. I wanted to know why he didn’t see me the way others did. And somewhere between the quiet talks, his teasing, and those small, thoughtful things he said, I started falling. Hard.

It was strange for me to go after a man. I’d always been the one in control. But with David, I lost that power, piece by piece. And when I realised he wasn’t going to meet me halfway, it stung. His silence felt like rejection, and for the first time, I didn’t try to replace him. I just felt it.

The subtle rejection hit harder than any breakup I’d ever experienced. For the first time, I started questioning everything I’d become.

So, I made a decision. I would stop. No more distractions. No more trying to fill my emptiness with moments that didn’t last. I would go celibate. Not for religion, but for peace. For myself. I decided to focus on my music, to pour everything into my dream of becoming a singer.

The first week was chaos. The second was better. By the third, I started to breathe again. My mornings felt lighter. I could hear myself think. I started writing songs again, honest ones, not just noise from a broken heart.

Then one evening, I got a message from an unknown number.

“Hey. It’s David.”

I froze. My heart raced like it had somewhere to be. At first, I ignored it, but after a few minutes, I replied.

We talked for hours. This time, the energy was different. He sounded softer, more open. And somehow, I wasn’t the same girl either. I wasn’t desperate or trying to prove anything. I was just me.

Then he said, “Can I see you?”

Something leapt inside me. That flutter I thought I had buried came alive again, stubborn and familiar. That was when I realised my celibacy wasn’t really about my career. It wasn’t even about self-discipline. I had gone celibate because of him. Because I loved him enough not to want to distract myself with anyone else. I wanted my feelings for him to fade naturally, but maybe the universe had other plans.

When I got to his place, it felt like time hadn’t moved at all. He looked the same. Only now, his eyes didn’t look away.

“I missed you,” he said.

And just like that, every wall I built started to fall.

When he kissed me, it wasn’t wild or rushed. It was calm. In that moment, I knew it wasn’t about losing control anymore; it was about being real with myself.

Maybe my celibacy didn’t really end that night. Maybe that was the night I finally understood that love doesn’t always make you lose yourself; sometimes, it finds you when you’ve finally stopped running.

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