03/05/2025 ( 5:33PM)

Folarin would always say I was the only one who understood him. That no one else got him the way I did. He’d say it with the kind of certainty that made me feel special, made me want to believe it. But now I wonder if what he really meant was: I was the only one who let him be everything he wanted, without question.

The version of himself that charmed and led, that needed to be adored without having to earn it. And I let him. I gave him the space to take up all the air, to say all the right things, to convince me that his wanting me, when he did, meant something.

But his love had a schedule. It came in waves, on nights when he needed to feel understood, on days when I wasn’t “too stubborn” to go along with whatever version of us he was willing to show me. He adored me, but not the whole of me. Only in bits. Only when it flattered him. And never when I needed it most.

Not when my voice grew firm, when I asked him why our conversations only existed in the in-between moments of his life. Not when I pulled away from the way he tried to stretch the meaning of intimacy, as if love could only exist where his hands wanted to be. Not when I told him I knew. Knew about the carefully constructed lies. Knew that every “we” he painted for us had an expiration date he never planned on telling me about.

But men like him always find their way back. A text here, a joke there, an offer that makes it seem like we’re something unfinished instead of something broken.

And when I don’t respond the way he expects, he turns it on me, makes it seem like I’m the one being unreasonable. As if I should be grateful for the chance to rewrite the story in a way that suits him. Mtcheww!

He won’t say sorry. Not really. He won’t acknowledge what he did. He just wants access again.

Tonight, it was a text message. “We would be needing you on my team soon” after he saw the crazy works I’ve been doing with the companies I work with.

As if admiration could be an apology. As if he could dangle an opportunity in front of me and I’d forget that my heart was collateral damage in whatever game he was playing.

I could ask, Why now? I could press, demand, force him to admit what he’s done, the destruction he never once acknowledged. But I already know how this story goes.

Folarin will always say he loved me.

And maybe, in his own twisted way, he did.

But love is not a disappearing act. Love is not a thing that needs perfect conditions to exist.

And love is not what he gave me. It was destruction.

Author’s note:

There’s a certain kind of anger that doesn’t just pass, it sits with you, sharp and unspoken. When his message came in, it wasn’t just a text. It was a reminder of everything left unresolved, of the way he could walk in and out of my life like nothing had happened (funny how we never even passed the stage of friendship, but emotions was seriously invested).

This piece was born from that anger, from that deep, aching frustration of knowing someone will never admit to what they’ve done. From the exhaustion of watching history attempt to repeat itself. I wrote it because I needed to. Because sometimes, the only closure we get is the one we give ourselves.

Not long after, I found myself scrolling through Substack and came across Tobe’s letter again. Something about it made me stop and read, not just skim, but really take it in because I had seen it earlier but didn’t get the energy to read. His words found something in me, something I couldn’t ignore. And in that moment, I knew, I had to write.

PS: Folarin isn’t the real name.