Woman in a Man's Field

 Dear Diary,

    FBOY called me a “woman in a man’s field.”

    He was joking when he said it, and I laughed. But the more I’ve thought about it, the less funny it actually feels.

    Because, I mean… he’s not entirely wrong.

    In the span of about a week, I linked with two different guys. Nothing went all the way, hence why I’m using the word “hookup” very loosely here, but I definitely gained some new experience with both of them.

    And I don’t really know how I feel about that.

    In the moment? I had fun.

    Clearly.

    There were even a few very questionable texts exchanged afterward that I will absolutely not be elaborating on.

    But once I’m alone again and everything is quiet, there’s this weird feeling that settles in.

    For lack of a better word, I feel… slutty.

    And before anyone comes for me: I KNOW.

    I know that having physical experiences with people doesn’t make somebody a slut. I know I’m literally still a virgin. I know I’m single. I know both of these guys knew exactly what the situation was. Nobody was lied to, nobody was promised anything, and nobody thinks we’re falling in love.

    Logically, I know all of that.

    Emotionally?

    It still feels weird.

    Maybe because if I’m being completely truthful, I never really wanted either of them.

    I wanted LG.

    That’s the part that keeps getting me.

    FBOY knows he’s a rebound. Like, explicitly. He knows there was somebody before him that I actually cared about, and he genuinely does not care. Our relationship is basically built on the mutual understanding that neither of us is looking for anything serious.

    Arthur doesn’t know the entire backstory, but he understands enough. He knows I’m not looking for a boyfriend. He knows I’m emotionally unavailable right now. And apparently, he’s perfectly content with just “making me feel good.”

    Which… okay.

    Very generous of him.

    And yet, somehow, the more detached I am from the two of them, the more I miss LG.

    Because it reminds me of what was different with him.

    Yes, I was attracted to LG. Obviously. But it wasn’t just that.

    There was an actual connection there.

    I liked talking to him. I cared what he thought. I wanted to know about his day. I wanted to spend time with him even if we weren’t doing anything exciting. There was emotional intimacy attached to the physical attraction.

    With these guys, there isn’t.

    And I think I’m realizing that physical attention without emotional attachment doesn’t actually fill the hole I thought it would.

    It distracts me.

    There’s a difference.

    For a few hours, I’m not thinking about LG. I’m not rereading our messages. I’m not wondering why he disappeared. I’m not thinking about what I could’ve said differently.

    Somebody else is touching me, flirting with me, complimenting me, making me laugh.

    And then I go home.

    And somehow, he’s still the person I miss.

    Which is almost annoying.

    Like seriously, how many distractions am I supposed to acquire before my brain gets the memo?

    I think what scares me a little is how easy it was for me to do all of this.

    Not “easy” as in they pressured me. They didn’t.

    I mean easy as in… I was hurting, someone offered affection, and I accepted it.

    Twice.

    Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that LG wasn’t special.

    Maybe I wanted to prove that other guys wanted me.

    Maybe I wanted to feel desirable after somebody I genuinely cared about made me feel so disposable.

    Or maybe I just didn’t want to sit in my room and feel sad anymore.

    Probably all of the above.

    The problem is that none of it has actually made me care less.

    If anything, it made the difference even more obvious.

    I can kiss somebody else.

    I can flirt with somebody else.

    I can send reckless texts and do things that would’ve made me nervous a few months ago.

    But apparently none of that automatically means I’ve moved on.

    I even pictured LG being there for my birthday.

    My 22nd birthday.

    My golden birthday.

    I had this whole little version of the future in my head where he was part of it. Dinner, going out, maybe seeing him that weekend.

    Now I don’t even really like thinking about my birthday.

    Because every time I picture it, there’s this weird empty space where I expected him to be.

    And I think that’s why I’m still stuck.

    There was no real ending.

    No final conversation.

    No “this isn’t working.”

    No goodbye.

    Nothing.

    Just an unfinished conversation that I apparently have to somehow make peace with by myself.

    And I hate that.

    I hate that a part of me is still waiting for closure from someone who had every opportunity to give it to me.

    I hate that I’m entertaining other men while secretly wishing one specific man would come back and finish the conversation.

    And maybe that makes me messy.

    Actually, it definitely makes me messy.

    But I think I’d rather admit that than pretend I’m suddenly some detached heartbreaker who doesn’t care about anybody.

    Because apparently I am not built like that.

    “Woman in a man’s field” sounds funny until you realize the woman in question is hooking up with men she doesn’t care about and then going home to miss the one guy she actually did.

    So.

    Maybe I’m not beating men at their own game after all.

    Maybe I’m just sad with better distractions.

xoxo, Keke♡