Part 2
Looking back now, I can’t believe how blind I was to the red flags. Not just the little ones, but the big, obvious ones waving right in my face. The truth is, the relationship wasn’t good from the start. It wasn’t built on mutual respect or emotional maturity—it was built on intensity, urgency, and the illusion that love alone could fix everything.
But when you're in it, you don’t see it that way. You see hope. You see potential. You see someone who could be better, if only they had enough love. Your love.
Who was I to believe I could change someone?
And why would someone want to change, if everything in their life had already taught them that they didn’t have to?
Landon grew up in a world where boys were handed freedom without accountability. A two-wheeler at sixteen, a car by eighteen—every desire met without hesitation. His family, especially his mother, adored him. And I used to think that’s just how “boy moms” were. But now that I’m a mother to a boy myself… I know better. Love doesn't mean indulgence. Love means responsibility. Boundaries. Empathy.
Still, it’s not fair to paint him all bad. There were moments—fleeting, soft, real—where he gave me the warmth and protection I craved. He never forced me into anything. And for me, that was a huge green flag. I took it as proof that he respected me. That he cared.
But what I didn’t realize is that he wasn’t protecting me.
He was preparing me—to let go of my own boundaries willingly. To make it easier for him to take without asking.
He never had to demand anything. Because eventually, I started giving it all away on my own.
There were moments, even then, where I questioned things. Where my gut told me to run. But I didn’t listen. I couldn’t.
And maybe that’s something I’ll talk about soon.
Because the truth is, when you love someone who’s emotionally unavailable,
you don’t just lose them—you lose yourself, too.
Before I wrap this, I want to share a memory—and maybe you can tell me whether it was sweet or bitter. Or maybe it was both.
We got involved in October, and by December 25th—Christmas Day—I had what I thought was our first real date. No plans. No reservations. Just… a long aimless drive, a bottle passed between us, the windows down, and the illusion that we were spontaneous and free.
By the end of the night, we ended up in a hotel.
I was inebriated. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t need to—not yet.
But afterward? The doubts came rushing in like a wave I wasn’t ready for.
The entrance to the hotel was tucked away in the parking lot.
He drove in without checking anything.
No hesitation. No Google Maps. No second-guessing availability.
Like he had done it before. Like this was routine.
And eventually, I found out it was.
It was the same place he had taken his ex.
And a few others.
“Friends,” he said.
It made me sick.
It makes me sick now.
Not just because of what he did—
But because I stayed.
Because I kept going back.
Because I believed that my love could somehow make me different in his story.
Because I thought being chosen meant being valued.
But now I know better.
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