Growing Up Together: Loving Through Your Early 20s

Category: 💔 From Love to Loss: The Relationship Arc

✦ “He was my first real love. My best friend. And eventually… the one who broke me wide open.” ✦ 

I didn’t mean to fall in love with my best friend. It just happened—slowly, sweetly, the way the best kinds of love stories often do.

It started in high school, junior year. We had a few classes together, but it was gym—last period, chaotic energy, teenage hormones—that brought us together. We’d always end up partners. We laughed too much, talked too loud, made school a little less miserable. He was charming, hilarious, a little reckless. And there was something about the way he listened—like he was collecting pieces of people. But when he listened to me, it felt like he was memorizing every word. Like I was a song he never wanted to forget. With him, even the quiet moments felt full—like we were writing something sacred in the silence.

I remember one night in particular. We sat in his truck for hours windows fogged up, music low, the world outside falling away. We weren’t doing anything special, just talking, laughing, letting the conversation drift wherever it wanted to. My head was on his shoulder. His hand found mine. And for a second, the chaos of being young didn’t matter. I felt completely understood, completely safe. It was the kind of night that makes you believe love might actually be magic.

By senior year, something shifted. The late-night texts felt different. The way he looked at me lingered a little longer. And one day, out of nowhere, he called me and told me he was in love with me. That he’d be my Superman.

I believed him.

God, I wanted to believe him.

But just weeks later, I walked into a restaurant with my girlfriends—and there he was. Sitting at a table with the girl he swore he had broken up with. My heart sank, and I swear time stopped. That was the first red flag. I should have turned around and run.

But love makes you blind. And hope makes you foolish. 

He convinced me he was all in. And I stayed.

Shortly after graduation, we made it official. We were together. He moved to Denver to start college. I stayed in New Mexico, even though I’d gotten into an art school in Denver too. We made plans—big plans. I’d move there in the winter. We’d get a place. Start our life together.

That summer, I grew close with his mom. We’d talk for hours, spend holidays together. She saw me, supported me, made me feel like part of the family. It’s strange how deeply you can love someone else's mom—how sometimes, that relationship is what keeps you hanging on.

When I finally visited him in Denver, I was on cloud nine. Until, one night, his phone lit up: “Baby, pick up. I miss you.”

Another girl.

Another lie. 

Another piece of me breaking in silence.

I cried the entire flight home. Told myself it was over. But somehow, I silenced every warning in my gut. I chose him anyway. I boxed up my entire world and followed my heart across state lines, hoping love would be enough.

We were just kids—barely 18—living in a new city, playing house. I was in school full-time, working full-time, barely sleeping. He was living off savings, and I was keeping us afloat. Sometimes I wonder what those years could’ve felt like if I hadn’t carried so much weight. I thought pouring myself into love was what made it real—but all it really did was drain me.

I gave everything.

We had a roommate—our friend from high school—and in many ways, he was the steady ground we both leaned on. He was the one who brought a little calm to our storms. A safe place for both of us when things felt heavy or uncertain. He held space for our relationship in ways we couldn’t always hold it for each other.

But as much as he helped keep us steady, it didn’t stop the tension building between me and the man I loved. The cracks in us kept growing—quietly at first, like whispers we tried to ignore, until they echoed too loudly to silence.

Then I found the message to his ex—the kind of message that cut through me like glass. Questions no loyal partner should ever ask. My chest tightened. My gut screamed. And just like that, I unraveled. I packed my bags, booked a hotel, and called my mom in tears. But somewhere on that long drive out of town, my heart betrayed my pride. I turned around.

We talked it out.

We always did.

No matter how many cracks formed, we kept trying to patch them up with hope, habit, and the belief that love was enough.

From the outside looking in, people said we were perfect together. We looked good—so good that even strangers would stop us to say it. Random people at coffee shops, grocery stores, and restaurants would compliment us, tell us how perfect we looked together, how lucky we must be. And in those moments, I clung to the image they saw, hoping one day we’d feel like that version of ourselves. We had chemistry. And they weren’t wrong—when we were good, we were magic.

Our kisses were the kind you never forget—soft, electric, like the world paused just to give us that moment. I still remember the way my stomach would flutter, like my heart was trying to catch up to my lips—even years later.

But deep down, something shifted.

The hurt from the past had never really healed—it lingered in the background, quietly shaping how I reacted to every glance, every silence, every mistake. I stopped feeling special. I started feeling invisible. Unseen.

There was a time when he’d take my hand, no music needed, and pull me into the center of our little living room. We’d sway, slow and easy, like the world had gone quiet just for us. Wrapped in his arms, I felt safe, adored—like I was exactly where I was meant to be. But as the years passed, those dances became fewer, then faded altogether. At first, I told myself we were just busy. Tired. Distracted. But deep down, I noticed. I felt the absence of those quiet, tender moments—the kind of closeness you can’t fake. And it hurt, more than I let on. Because being in his arms like that… it used to be my favorite place in the world. But somewhere along the way, that place stopped feeling like home. The warmth faded, and in its place came distance—followed by doubt.

I’m not the jealous type—I’ve always been secure in myself. But something in the way he looked at other women made me question everything.

Over time, I stopped trusting him. We started fighting—words that wounded deeper than we knew. I was losing pieces of myself.

Still, I held on.

Everyone around me always told me how much that boy loved me. His mom, his dad, his stepmom—they all swore up and down that I was his everything. And maybe I wanted so badly for it to be true, I clung to their words instead of facing my own doubts.

And even through the heaviness—through the silence, the distance, the hurt—love still managed to flicker. There were bright spots—beautiful memories I still hold close. One Christmas, he gave me a box of rocks. As a child, I loved rocks—each one unique and full of wonder. My dad used to joke that one year all I’d get for Christmas was a box of rocks—and the thought used to make me giggle with excitement, not dread. He’d saved those rocks from his childhood and placed them in a velvet-lined box, polished and pretty, wrapped in shiny paper with a big satin bow. It looked like something out of a fairytale—so simple, so thoughtful, so me. It was the most meaningful gift I’ve ever received. I still have that box.

We grew up together. We learned how to live, love, and survive together. Just the two of us, hundreds of miles away from home. We figured out how to budget, pay bills, navigate messy apartments, and grocery shop on a dime. We laughed. We explored. We made the best of young adulthood.

But we also endured more than most should at that age. Over time, things shifted between us and our roommate—the easy closeness faded, and tension crept into the walls of our shared home. We started tiptoeing around each other. Arguments sparked more often. The balance that once held us up began to collapse.

Before our lease was even up, he and I knew it was time—we were ready to have a place that was just ours. No shared walls, no buffer between us. Just the two of us, side by side, trying to create something real without the cushion of someone else in the middle. At first, it felt like a fresh start—peaceful, even. But the silence quickly turned into something else. Without our buffer, without someone to steady the emotional seesaw between us, everything felt heavier. More fragile. More real.

The loneliness hit me hardest. The nights were quiet, but not in a comforting way. More like the kind of quiet that echoes back everything you’ve been trying not to hear. We were still under the same roof, but it felt like we were living separate lives.

That was the beginning of the slow unraveling—the part where I started to realize we weren’t building anything new. We were just trying to hold on to something already slipping through our fingers.

I remember the moment it all shattered.

My grandmother died. I was devastated. I needed him. 

But he didn’t show up. 

He “couldn’t take off work.”

I drove six hours home, crying the entire way. Alone. Again.

He had been absent before—but this time, it was different. This time, I couldn't forgive so easily.

Time passed—nearly a year of trying to forget, trying to heal, trying to move forward. But the space between us only grew wider.

And then, just when I thought maybe we had turned a corner… he did the unthinkable. While I was out of town for my brother’s graduation—another important milestone he couldn't be bothered to show up for—he went to a strip club. Spent $1,000. After everything I poured into us—my time, my heart, my savings—that’s where he chose to invest his energy. In betrayal. In carelessness. In someone else.

I left again. Moved back home. My heart was tired, my spirit drained—but I still couldn’t close the door on us. I missed the comfort, the history, and the illusion of safety. A part of me was too scared to start over, too afraid to let someone else in—and just as afraid he'd do the same. That fear kept me tethered—to a love I knew was fading, to a version of us that only lived in memories. So, I did what I had always done: I pushed the red flags under the rug and pretended they weren’t there. I called myself crazy. I told myself it wasn’t that serious. And just like every other time, we’d bury it. Pretend it didn’t sting. Pretend it didn’t matter. Until the next fight, when the hurt would come spilling out again—louder, heavier, harder to swallow.

Still, I stayed. Because when you're wrapped up in a love like that—one that shaped your youth, held your dreams, and blurred your boundaries—letting go feels impossible. 

You hold on, even as it’s tearing you apart.

And so, I did—until the world came to a halt. When everything outside of us shut down, we made a move that felt like a fresh start. When the world shut down for COVID, we moved back home. We bought a house—my dream home—and I poured over $20,000 of my own money into making it ours. I thought this was it. I thought we were finally growing into the people we were always meant to become.

But even in that house, I was alone.

He forgot our anniversary. No call. No message. Just silence. He didn’t come home until hours after work like it was any other day. And that was the moment something in me snapped—not in anger, but in clarity.

I walked away—from the house I poured my soul into, from the life I sacrificed so much to build, from the man I once believed was my forever.

I left behind walls I helped remodel with love and intention—rooms echoing with memories I fought so hard to protect and pieces of myself I had woven into every detail. A home that held my sanity, my savings, and years of silent heartbreak. I walked away knowing that one day, another woman would live in the space I had poured myself into—cook in the kitchen I renovated, sleep in the bed I bought, make memories in the home I once dreamed would hold our future.

And I left knowing it would hurt in ways I wasn’t ready for—that it would hollow me out long before it healed me. But I also knew: I could no longer carry a love that never truly carried me. So I let it burn. I let it all fall apart—because after nearly a decade of pouring my heart, my time, and my energy into someone else's growth, someone else's comfort, someone else's dream—I was done. This time, I was going to give it all to me. Every piece I used to give away. Every part of myself I tucked into his shadow. It was finally mine again.

And in that reclamation, the truth became undeniable—I was the one who kept us going. I was the glue. The fire. The foundation.

And still—I rise. Softer in some ways, fiercer in others. Standing taller, speaking louder, choosing myself every single time. Finally, free.