Now this isn’t how you expect all the love story tropes to fall into place. In fact, it’s the opposite. There’s no kiss in the rain, reckoning on New Year’s Eve, or even a pile of unsent letters (emails). Did I fall in love though? Well.

We called each other transition buddies last spring. Both recovering from failed relationships, job layoffs, and life transitions that can sneak up quite rudely in your late 30s. Colleagues for over eight years, our friendship rooted in mutual respect and admiration. When I was on a professional high, he was one of my core friends who stepped in and attended events my ex-fiancé couldn’t bear.

So only naturally did we fall into step together as we navigated the unknown. Shared meals, reservoir walks, he even came to see an apartment with me so I wouldn’t be alone as I figured out where I would live next. Our mutual friends quietly took note of how comfortable we were together, but I brushed it off with, “He’s just such a good friend.” The emotional safety was innate - and jarring. I had been struggling in a relationship before where I became accustomed to walking on eggshells, navigating the moods of my ex, shrinking to not disturb his peace or trigger his insecurity. My friend was the opposite. And because of that my nervous system relaxed beside him. It wasn’t new - that had always been the case with us - but I began to realize what I compromised on in romantic relationships were things I never compromised in friendship. We came up together in an industry spewed with backstabbing and gaslighting. Both self-acclaimed slow burns, that gentle approach to trust and honesty weaved between us, professionally and personally.

When fall approached, I was in an accident on a work trip out of the country. He showed up at the hospital with another friend of ours to be there by my side. When moments of crisis happened in my past - whether I was single or not - I was the one to take charge, to be resourceful, to sort out solutions. Here, I met my match. And as I watched him organize all the paperwork to take back to the US, the thought crossed my mind, “Oh, this is the type of man you marry.” It was sudden and, frankly, surprised me. The last six years of my relationship, my ex and I spun our heads around whether to marry or not. I held back, and, ultimately, was dishonest with him and myself. I kept repeating the falsity we claimed was my truth, “I’m not ready; We need to make more money; I can’t decide on a location.” But the real truth - that admittedly took a beat for my courage to own up to - was that I never felt fully secure with him. Something was missing. I thought it was my fault that I couldn’t bring myself to take the leap. When I told my aunt later, “I didn’t feel emotionally safe,” she responded with, “That’s it, that’s all you need to know.”

After my accident, I had to heal. I mean…I really had no choice. My friend reminded me that we’d laugh about this one day, but my self esteem was shattered and that “one day” felt so far out of reach. I was in a hurry to get to my next chapter - to find the job, to find my person. A broken jaw and shattered teeth left me defeated on top of the humility of a layoff and rawness of a breakup. I was grateful, of course. The doctors repeatedly told me if I didn’t flip myself over I would’ve broken my neck. But I was tired. My optimism was struggling to see the bright side. So, I retreated to my grandmother’s home in Chicago. The place I grew up became my rehab. Time moved slow and fast at the same time. She had faith in me, in my journey - and slowly, I relearned how to have faith in myself; the blessing in the breaking.

At the beginning of that year, I knew deep down I had to end my engagement. I knew deep down my job wasn’t secure. I felt it in my bones that I had to move through what the year was going to bring in order to become the woman I wanted to be. I didn’t love myself then. I didn’t like who I was - I was becoming quieter, anxious, distrustful. I kept waiting for a shoe to drop, my anxiety on overdrive. Our couples therapist called me “chicken little” at one point, which enraged my best friends, but felt accurate as much as offensive to me. Those girls though were my life raft. They held me tightly. As the year passed and the transitions kicked in, I was shedding my old self. My friend became a source of calm, too; before a slew of meetings to figure out my next job, I confessed to him my anxiety was racing, that everything felt high stakes. His response was, “what if instead of high stakes it’s just the start of a conversation?” Ironically, we’d apply that logic to my confession 8 months later.

As a new year snuck in, January led to another work trip. I was under a pressure cooker for a new job that had me at events socializing left and right. We did what we usually do - saw screenings together, met up at parties, killed time in between meetings. Nothing changed except for what I was feeling and the urge to say something. The final night I arrived at a party. A woman sat next to him. I ignored it, though signals flashed anyway. I’ve been practicing not anticipating worst case scenarios after all. As we stood in the coat check line, I leaned in and asked if he was going home with her and he looked at me without saying a word. I knew. He left and I texted “I misread it all.”

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat on the bathroom floor instead. Was I nauseous? Calm? Embarrassed? Stunned? Pissed at my intuition? Did I imagine it all? I replayed our friendship over the months. The moments I thought hovered over something more. And you better believe I sent out the texts to my girls. All of them reminding me to take a breath and that I'll be okay. I knew that. And deep down I knew he and I would be okay, too. Growth as they call it? F*ckin’ growth.

The next day we spoke on the phone. His voice sounded nervous, mine….I was trying to play it cool while my heart made its way up my throat. To be quite honest, I can’t remember how I sounded. My default mode during impending conflict [out of fear of abandonment] is pep. And I didn’t want to lose what we had, even if it was platonic. When I said, “I’ve been thinking of us as more than friends and wondering if we should give this a shot,” I almost knew what the answer was going to be in return. The phone line cut out on his response and I asked him to repeat it again. “I don’t feel the same way,” freed me. The truth was that I was relieved to no longer wonder. It was a promise I made myself at the beginning of the year: to face truths even if they hurt. This life felt too precious to me after seeing how quickly it slipped away with the wrong people in the wrong places. We agreed we’d meet once we’re back in Los Angeles and talk more in person.

As much as I want to admit that I was ready to high-five and move on, I was not. I hid at my sister’s the next few days, passing sleepless nights with old episodes of Friends and an embarrassing playlist from high school.

When we finally sat across from each other at dinner, I felt the energy. Now knowing it was one-sided…but I felt it. The connection, the ease, the love and respect we have for each other. We shared a bottle of wine and split dessert. The usual comforts that blurred the lines in our friendship. We laughed. I quoted Wayne Gretzky (“You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take”), he shook his head at the mischief that plagued the week before. But as I heard “kind of sort of seeing” and “sort of single,” I realized we were on different pages. Yes he didn’t feel the same way, but more importantly, I was centered and clear; I was ready to find my person and I wanted them to be sure of me. The years of forced matches, confusion and, let’s face it, mothering boys were long behind me. And that clarity was a result of our friendship. I loved myself finally enough to let go of potential and face reality.

That night we hugged each other goodbye, determined to move forward, which undoubtedly we will. When I returned to my sister’s place, my baby nephew toddled towards me, arms reaching up to embrace. Picking him up, I was reminded how easy it is to be sure of someone, to love fiercely and fearlessly; how love shows itself when it’s sure.

The heartbreak wasn’t unrequited love. It was letting go of the possibility that my person, my partner, could be my friend. He didn’t choose me in the way I wanted, but he loved me in a way that changed me. Through our friendship, I learned that emotional safety isn’t rare or imaginary or earned through endurance.

It showed me what is possible in a partner.

It just wasn’t going to be him.

This isn’t a love story because we chose to build a life together. It is a love story because, in the end, I learned how to love myself without abandoning who I am and what I need.

Maybe we weren’t Harry and Sally. But the ending mattered all the same

© Roma Kaiuk