FALL FOR YOUR TYPE!

Hey you,

Whenever I’m asked if I have a “type,” I usually shrug and say, not really. I’ve always liked them different — could be how she walks, how she holds her purse, how she articulates her words, how she does the simplest things with her own flair. I’ve never chased after body types or skin colors (okay, fine — younger me didn’t yet understand the excellence that comes with dark-skinned women).

So yeah, I tend to say I don’t have a type.

But I do.

Funny thing is — I just realized this. So we’re discovering it together.

All the women who’ve truly been my type? They’ve had one thing in common: they’ve moved on from me.

Ouch, I know. It sounds tragic, maybe even a little poetic. But let me explain.

See, I tend to mess up. That’s on me. I’ll own that. I’ve made poor choices, and now, I’m living with the echoes of my early twenties. I’m older now — orbiting the higher spaces of my late twenties — but I still carry the weight of that younger version of me. The one who would meet someone, overthink everything, freeze, then watch her walk away.

By the time I find my way out of my own head, I’m ready. I show up fully, heart open — but she’s already gone.

So I end up chasing someone I can no longer have. Not because she’s “hard to get” — but because I lost her while playing chess with my fears. And now I can’t let go, not immediately. I convince myself there’s still a shot, that I just need to try harder.

And that’s how I figured it out.
My type? Women who’ve moved on from me.

It’s sad. I know. But this cycle — it has a rhythm.

I chase.
I lose.
I promise to do better next time.
Then next time comes… and I’m right back in my head again.

Why? If I had to give an answer (and tonight, it feels like I do), I’d say it all started with the first woman I truly loved — and lost. Ever since, I’ve second-guessed every move.

Should I hold her hand?
Or is it too early?
Should I ask where she is, or does that sound controlling?
When do I reveal that I’m clingy and secretly want to spend every waking moment with her?

But wait — what if she’s the type who gets bored when her partner is always around?
Maybe I should be more chill.
Take it slow.

So I suppress. I analyze. I play it safe.
And by the time I finally decide to just be myself… she’s already gone.

Now I’m trying to figure out how to do everything right… with someone who’s no longer interested. And still — my heart races at the thrill of chasing her one more time. I tell myself: If I got her the first time, maybe I’ll get her the second.

But relationships… they’re like celotape.
Once it’s unstuck, you can try to stick it again — but it never quite holds the same.

So they don’t come back. And I’m left, once again, promising myself I’ll do better with the next one.

That promise — it’s part confession, part comfort. A way of trying to patch up something I know I ruined.

And that brings me here, to this question I’ve been sitting with lately:
How do I save myself from… myself?

Do I just show up as I am, and if she stays, I keep winging it?
Or do I match her vibe, ease into her world, and then slowly let me show up?

Now that I’m older, dating feels like a weird paradox — easier in theory, but harder in practice. I’ve spent a long time alone. I’m used to my solitude. And meeting someone new means talking. Texting. Sharing space. Explaining. And right now? I don’t really subscribe to all that.

But maybe I should give it another shot.
And if it doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll try again after a few years. Or not. Who knows?

Anyway — if you’ve made it this far, thank you for holding space for these words.

One last thing: dress warmly. It’s cold out. And if you can, try some lemon tea.
Someone very dear to me introduced me to it — and let me tell you, it’s beautiful here.

With love,
Thairu