WARNING: Long Melancholic Material

For today’s bidyow, I want to share a story, a bittersweet one, about the time I let go of a girl who could’ve been a forever for something as trivial as my pride and ego.

It happened years ago, back when I was fresh out of college and hunting for my first job. I was brimming with confidence then, maybe too much for my own good. I had excelled in both academics and extracurriculars, and that success had turned me into what I now call an aggressive achiever.

To me, the job market wasn’t just a place to find work… it was another battleground, and every applicant was competition. I treated them with quiet hostility, never sparing a nod or a rapport unless they were already on the company

And then I met her.

I arrived early for an interview, as I always did, and was the first to sign in at the reception. I scribbled down my name, city address, and purpose: job interview. A few minutes later, she walked in, a girl with fair skin, long, straight black hair, and a face that carried a quiet, innocent beauty. Her outfit was neat and modest, without a hint of provocation, but it was her calm presence that caught my attention.

She sat beside me on the lobby sofa and tried to strike up a conversation. “Are you here for an interview too?” she asked with a soft smile.

I nodded, curt and distant, already sizing her up as competition. If I gave her anything more, it might make her feel too comfortable.

Soon, our names were called, and we went into separate rooms for our interviews.

When I returned to the lobby to retrieve my ID, I noticed she was still sitting there, smiling faintly as if she’d been waiting. I couldn’t help myself; I walked over and asked, Are you done?

Yes, she replied, standing up.

Then, as if gathering courage, she asked, Where are you headed after this?

I have somewhere to be, I said, brushing her off. Her smile faltered, and I realized why she was still there, she’d been waiting for me.

Apparently, during her own check out at the reception, she’d noticed we shared the same city address. She’d stayed, hoping we could head home together since neither of us had a car.

Caught off guard, I hesitated. Then, almost as an afterthought, I invited her for coffee. Truthfully, I wasn’t feeling generous. My real motive was to pry into her interview experience, another way to size up my competition.

I canceled my plans that day, even though I’d originally had someone else to meet. For context, I was laser focused on landing a job back then, not because I needed the money, but because I had something to prove. Dating, to me, was just a distraction or a way of revenge. But there was something about this girl, something intriguing enough for me to cancel a scheduled date with someone I barely cared about.

When I invite someone for coffee or a meal, I make it a point to cover the tab. So there we were, sharing a quiet coffee date at Starbucks. Over the aroma of roasted beans and the hum of casual conversations, we exchanged bits and pieces of our lives. She was genuinely staring at my eyes the whole moment with amazement and admiration.

She came from a humble background. She wasn’t just applying for jobs, she was biding her time, waiting to take her licensure exam for teachers. Her dream was to teach in a public school, and as she spoke, I could tell she had a heart for it.

By the end of our conversation, she asked for my contact details, and we swapped numbers. For me, it was a rare moment. I wasn’t the kind of person to hand out my real information, especially to someone I’d just met. But she already knew my full name from the log sheet at reception, so what was the point in lying? We eventually end up going home together that day.

It didn’t take long for our connection to deepen. We started dating. I introduced her to my family, and in turn, I met hers. It was a whirlwind of shared moments, laughter, and quiet understanding. She was everything you’d call “wife material,” kind, grounded, loyal.

But I was a mess.

At the time, I was still clawing my way out of the aftermath of my worst heartbreak. I was angry, not just at myself, but at women in general, especially the kind I’d labeled “flirty” or insincere. And though she wasn’t anything like them, I was too blinded by my own bitterness to see what I had. I just tagged woman who says yes to having an intimate time with me as such.

I remembered our first…

Her scent lingered in the air, soft and natural, like something uniquely hers. It wasn't cloying or artificial-just an understated fragrance that stayed with me long after we parted. Her skin was smooth, fair, and flawless, the kind most people would envy.

She had a quiet beauty about her, the kind that made you feel like you were holding onto something rare. By anyone's standards, she could've been called a "trophy," though I hated thinking of her in such shallow terms.

In the privacy of our moments together, she gave herself to me completely. She'd kneel with a determined kind of passion, her soft lips and tongue working over me until l couldn't hold back anymore. She wasn't shy about taking every bit of it, swallowing as if it were her way of showing just how much she cared.

Sometimes we'd go without protection, crossing that intimate line in a way that felt reckless and raw. I still remember her first time-the quiet gasp of pain, the blood, the vulnerability in her eyes as she trusted me with something she'd never given anyone before. It should have been a moment of tenderness, a memory to hold with care. But even then, my focus was on the surface on how her reactions fed my ego rather than the depth of what we were sharing.

She'd run her fingers across my abs afterward, tracing the lines with a soft smile, as if to remind me of how much she admired me. She'd make casual remarks about my size, playful compliments meant to lift me up, but I never really believed her. I'd always compare myself to impossible standards, those distorted ideals shaped by porn-and I brushed her words aside.

It wasn't that she wasn't enough. If anything, she gave me more than I ever deserved. But I couldn't see it then, lost as I was in my own insecurities and blind selfishness.

When we crossed the line into intimacy, I didn’t just judge her, I weaponized my judgment against her. She was inexperienced, and though I was her first, I had the gall to criticize. Sure, she gave a decent effort for BJ where she could, but in my mind, she was “boring.” I picked apart every little thing, right down to how she bent during sex (like arching her back to do an ocho ocho), convincing myself that she wasn’t enough.

I told myself these were the reasons I was pulling away, but deep down, I knew they were lies. The truth? I wasn’t ready to commit. I was still hurting in ways I didn’t fully understand.

And she paid the price for it.

When I ended things, she begged me to stay. She pleaded for another chance, tears in her eyes, her voice trembling with desperation. It hit me like a punch to the gut because her vulnerability mirrored my own when I had once begged someone to stay. And just like that, I froze.

Instead of compassion, I shut her down. Coldly. Cruelly. I walked away, leaving her to carry the pain I couldn’t bear to acknowledge in myself.

Looking back, I realize I was the villain in her story… the one who broke her heart when all she ever did was offer me hers.

I hope that she now has the life and love she deserves.