Patterns

Hey there.

You know… I thought I had a song I could use to talk about this, but — I really don’t. Maybe it’ll come to me later and I can add some lyrics in. But for now — let’s just talk.

So, what’s happened since the last time I checked in?

This won’t surprise you: I danced with the bones of what I thought was my buried past.

Smooth Jazz appeared in my Bumble likes. This was about a month after he left some comments on my writing Instagram page. sigh Why must these guys come back?

I guess it’s because somehow, I always wind up giving them a second chance to do something that hurts me.

Actually — a song just came to mind.

Alexa, play “Patterns” by Kelsea Ballerini…

“Like the stars up in the sky. Like ‘I love you’ to ‘Goodbye’. I got questions, I got whys. I got patterns…”

Not sure if you’re into astrology or even believe in it, but according to my birth chart, my Taurus sun–Gemini moon "creates a paradox" where I spend time studying where relationships went wrong… while ignoring my own need for "emotional nourishment."

Apparently, I grant second chances “not from weakness but from calculation — track record, possible explanations, future potential.”

When I saw him in my likes, I froze.

Now it's somehow progressed from random late night comments— things like how special he thought I was and how he hoped he “gave me a sense of empowerment” — to him “pursuing” me.

Or… so I thought.

“It’s in my generations. It’s in my constellations. Moon and Saturn. Ooh, they’re rollin’ through my bloodstream. I’m comin’ apart at the seams. I got patterns…”

Stupidly, I swiped right.

I waited a day before sending a message. Then I waited a few more days for him to respond. How annoying.

When he finally messaged back, he asked to catch up on a phone call.

More waiting.

Naturally, because I overthink everything, my mind started spiraling. What was the point of coming back if I was going to have to play the waiting game again? It’s been a year — and after the things he wrote in my comments — why am I still waiting?

I’m so special.

I’ve said it before, but I cry more than I’d like to admit. While overthinking all this, I had a good cry. I think it was hormones… or just the exhaustion of dealing with the same shit over and over.

I’m not a yo-yo.
I’m a real human with real feelings.
I just want to be chosen.

And it seems the ones who didn’t choose me keep coming back just to waste my fucking time.

So. Let me present, for the court of public opinion: the telephone call between myself and Smooth Jazz.

When I answered, he said, “I remember that voice.”
I said, “I remember your voice too.”

Small talk followed. He told me he got a cat named Kevin (cute, I’ll admit). But honestly, my nerves were all over the place — and I was about 1½ Cutwater Rum Mojitos in — when I brought up the elephant in the room: his cryptic IG comments.

His response?

“I was probably drunk when I wrote them.”

Come again?

One of those comments said he hoped he had given me a sense of empowerment because he thought I was special.

That was a drunk comment?

Yeah… my heart already knew I wasn’t going to get something magical out of this. Too early for a Christmas reference, but it felt like a lump of coal had just dropped into my lap.

I think deep down, whenever a guy comes back, we hope it’s some unexpected declaration of love — or that they finally realize they f*cked up a good thing.

It’s never that.

At least not in my experience.

A week after that phone call, he messaged me. I didn’t reply.

It’s not that I need to hear from someone every single day, but… nearly a week later? You came back for this? No sincerity. No effort.

And somehow, I knew that deep down.
So why did I even bother?

Maybe it’s my Gemini moon. Maybe it’s the hopeless romantic in me. Maybe it’s the desire to finally be chosen.

But I’ve got to get out of my own head and start choosing myself — over this romanticized version of what’s supposed to happen. Over old stories. Over boredom dressed as “unfinished business.”

Once I start doing that — stop giving credence to men who didn’t choose me when they had me — maybe then I’ll find what I’ve been searching for all along.

But I’ve got to recognize when I’m falling into my pattern.

“Over and over and over again. It’s so much deeper than under my skin. Is this a battle that I’ll ever win? When does it start and when does it end? […] Will I outgrow all these patterns?”

I guess 37 is a good age to try.

If you're still here — thanks for sitting with me in this.

If you want more stories like this one, you can find them under Storytime in the navigation bar. And if you're curious about the songs behind the feelings, check out Soundtrack to My Life — also in the nav.

There’s always more to the story. Sometimes it just comes with a beat.