I Once Loved a Girl

What she awakened in me, and why I ran from it

She never called herself a queen. She never liked it.

She had a beautiful Yoruba name — it translates to “I am close to wealth.”

And somehow, that’s exactly how it felt. Not the kind of wealth you see in numbers or status, but the kind that calms your nervous system and makes you question everything you thought you knew about peace, presence, and love.

She was dark-skinned, calm-faced, beautiful in that quiet, inexplicable way that didn't ask for attention but got it anyway. Her eyes always looked a little tired, like she’d seen too much of life, and yet, she moved through the world with a quiet strength. You could miss her in a crowd, but you'd never forget her once you'd noticed.

Her laugh cracked through the silence like sunlight cutting through dust. It wasn’t dramatic, but it had texture, like it knew the joke behind the joke. She was like that. You could sit in complete silence with her and still feel deeply heard.

She always wore her hijab. And it wasn’t just fabric. It was identity. It was a choice. I never saw her without it, and honestly, I never needed to. She didn’t wear it out of pressure. She wore it because it was hers — and because she knew who she was.

We never touched — maybe once. Just a brush of fingers in passing. No hugs. No hand-holding. But somehow, we felt closer than skin. She made distance feel like intimacy, not absence.

We talked. About faith. About life. About how two people from two different worlds — a Muslim lady and a Catholic guy — had somehow ended up in this strange, quiet space of connection. We knew how these stories usually ended. Still, we kept writing.

And yet, she wasn’t perfect. She could be harsh, brutally so. Her honesty cut deep; sometimes it healed, other times it just cut. She had no patience for hesitation. No tolerance for half-truths. When she forgave, it felt like a courtroom verdict. When she didn’t, it was ice.

At the time, I wanted to see it as strength. But now, I wonder if it was a wall — one I was never meant to climb.

She loved trap music. Of all things. Dark lyrics, heavy beats. Her favorite artist made you wonder if you were depressed or just introspective. She listened with a kind of religious devotion, which, honestly, confused me. She was deeply spiritual, but also deeply contradictory. That fascinated me. Scared me too.

She rarely looked me in the eye. I still don’t know why. Maybe modesty. Maybe caution. Maybe she knew that holding my gaze too long would unravel both of us. There are things the eyes say that mouths are too careful to confess.

And then — I ran.

Typical me. If you know me, you’ve rolled your eyes already. One moment I’m all-in, the next I’m gone. It’s a pattern I’m trying to break.

I don’t even know what I was running from. Maybe it was the stillness. The clarity. The fact that she never asked to be chased, just understood. Her presence held up a mirror, and I didn’t like what I saw. So I did what I do best — disappeared. No goodbye. No explanation. Just... vanished.

And yes, I hurt her. I know that. Because she showed up for me in ways I didn’t know how to receive — consistently, gently, fully. And I returned that with fear and absence. That’s something I carry.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just running from her. I was running from myself. From what it meant to be loved without needing to perform. From what it meant to be seen, not just admired. Real love has no costumes. And I hadn’t learned to live without mine.

She helped me rise — mentally, emotionally, spiritually. She made things make sense. She brought clarity. And in some strange way, she made me more honest with myself than I’d ever been. I was becoming a better man, but becoming also meant breaking. And I wasn’t ready for that.

She was living up to her name. We were close to wealth. And I didn’t know how to hold it.

She never called herself a queen. She was a king. But not the ruling kind. The reigning kind. The kind that walks into a room and shifts the atmosphere without saying a word.

I don’t know if she thinks of me. But I think of her. Not always with guilt — sometimes just with quiet gratitude. Because she woke something in me. She stirred the still parts. She held up the kind of love that didn’t beg, didn’t break, didn’t boast.

She made me realize that I’ve always been more comfortable chasing chaos than receiving peace.

And now?

Now I’m trying to unlearn that.

What I’ve Learned

We say we want something real. But we don’t always know what to do with it when it arrives. Real isn’t loud. Real isn’t performance. Real is presence, and presence asks something of you.

If someone makes you feel safe in silence, stay.
If someone brings you face-to-face with your truest self, even the parts you’ve avoided, lean in.
And if someone’s love feels like rising, don’t fear the height. Learn how to stand in it.

Not every love is meant to last. But some loves are meant to shape you.

She did that.
And I’m still learning what to do with the man she helped me become.

With a quieter heart,
And a soul still under construction,
A Growing Man