I still remember the first night I cried to her about a boy. It was the 5th grade, and Zach, with the silkiest looking hair I still to this day have ever seen, broke my itty-bitty little heart. And no amount of Beyoncé, Rihanna, or Nicki Minaj female empowerment was gonna lift me out of it.

My best friend of thirteen years, she held me, she held me and said “pretty girls don’t cry over stupid boys.” Kind of ironic thing to say now because all I ever see are pretty girls crying over stupid boys.

There would soon be many, many, nights to follow of me breaking down on her shoulder over the same ole’ dirtbag playing with my heart.

At this point I have a type, and it’s not been working out for me.

My current boyfriend, or I guess ex-boyfriend Dennis and I were dating on and off for about three years. Our relationship was toxic, but not the glamorized hollywood toxic. The real shit. No drugs, no alcohol, no damaging outside vices. Our relationship was suffering from the suffocating aspects of co-dependency. We just became to reliant on each other.

I would constantly vent to her about things he would do to upset me. She would respond with the conventional “you need to leave him, you’re too good for him.”

Right.

My best friend is the life of any party, she has this personality that just draws people to her. Think Maddy from euphoria. She has this overpowering confidence that intimidates everyone around her.

No one can tell her shit, she is who she is and that’s that.

Dennis and I weren’t perfect, but love, what can I say-it really makes all the unbalanced things in life level out and in some weird way, amidst whatever chaos, you take one look at your person, and feel balanced.

We moved-in together pretty quickly and it was nice. Some days i’d wake up to the smell of herb roasted potatoes and breakfast sausage. And some nights I’d fall asleep to the most comforting back massage-the aroma of lavender essential oils filling the air.

I’d always dreamed of a romantic Parisian type of love. To be completely honest what girl hasn’t.

We weren’t taking evening strolls through the Louvre or stopping at La Fontaine 31-33 Rue Juliette Dodu.

But the way he spoke to me, the way he breathed life into my dreams, made me feel like Marilyn Monroe; a damed beauty destined for greatness.

Kind of silly but that’s what this type of love does. It makes you feel like your adequacy is based on the life breathed into your ambitions and goals by another.

She knew I wanted out, she could tell I was slowly breaking a part.

I knew.

I knew she wanted him.

She probably thought she was covering up her tracks, but I knew. I could tell by the way she laughed a couple seconds longer than I, anytime he told a joke, whether it was funny or not.

The lengthened eye contact.

The wideness of her smile.

I knew.

Sometimes those closest to us do the most horrid things. He needs a bountiful ego to fill, and she has an ego that requires filling. I’ve gained clarity and come to terms with the hurt and betrayal.

Maybe someday i’ll get that ‘Parisian love,’ in a way this is a happy ending for the both of us.