Shadow Bloom
She’s not hard to get. She’s hard to access.
She used to get ready like something magical might happen.
Lipstick precise. Perfume subtle. Hair curled like a promise.
She used to believe the right table, the right mood, the right stranger could change everything.
So, she said yes—again and again.
Date One
He talked about crypto for an hour straight.
Charts, coins, and decentralizing the world.
Every anecdote somehow circled back to him.
He clearly loved hearing himself talk.
When he wasn’t talking about cyrpto, each story began with, “You won’t believe what I did.”
The food arrived. She barely got a word in.
Date Two
He was polite, well-dressed, and said all the right things.
Held the door open, complimented her eyes, asked about her favorite books.
But there was something hollow in it all—like he was reading off a script he’d used too many times before.
She answered thoughtfully, but never deeply.
Because deep isn’t something she gives to just anyone anymore.
She caught him glancing at his watch, like he was waiting for the right moment to flee.
Date Three
He walked in, spotted her—
and without a word, turned around and left.
No handshake, no hello.
Just a glance that said everything.
She sat there, stunned. Half amused, half insulted.
Then ordered herself a glass anyway.
Because she, at least, showed up.
She’d sit across from them. A smile here. A raised brow there.
A silent monologue running behind her eyes:
You’re not it. And that’s okay.
There was a time she would’ve overanalyzed it.
Replayed the conversations.
Waited to see if they’d text the next day.
Not anymore.
Because it stopped being about whether they liked her.
It started being about whether she liked them.
She didn’t want to force what didn’t feel right. Didn’t want to fill the quiet with people who didn’t add to her peace.
Now, the act of getting ready is for her.
She puts on the lipstick because she likes how it looks. Plays music while she dances around in her apartment. Takes herself out when she feels like it.
Stays in when she doesn’t.
And when she comes home at the end of the night, she throws her shoes off at the door,
drops her keys on the counter,
and doesn’t check her phone.
Because she’s done being the 'nice girl' who stays just to be polite. Done entertaining conversations that drain her. Done giving time to people who never earned it.
She’s not chasing love anymore.
She’s not proving she’s worthy of it.
She knows she is.
When it’s meant to find her—it will.
And it’ll feel easy.
Certain.
Aligned.
Until then, she’s not waiting.
She’s living.
Trusting the universe.
Letting it unfold.
No pressure. No timelines. No pretending.
Because this version of her—
The one who chooses peace over performance,
silence over small talk,
self-respect over people-pleasing—
is exactly where she’s meant to be.