Lessons from a Lover, Part Two

A goodbye to a big, beautiful love

I’m not writing this to romanticize something that ended. The truth is, I never want to forget what it taught me. This type of love wasn’t meant to last forever, but it changed me. It’s a kind of love that reminded me of what’s possible. This is a story about a love that wasn’t wasted, wasn’t wrong, but big enough to warrant — not one, but two!! — dedicated Substacks.

When I wrote Lessons From a Lover (now, Part One) at the end of summer, I genuinely thought that was the end of our story. I really thought I could navigate dating with clean lines, like rules, boundaries.

But like I said in Part One, dating in your mid-thirties isn’t always black and white. You can know exactly what you want, define all the “right rules,” and still find yourself in the gray… in the most unexpected, beautiful way.

I believed every word I wrote. But now that I’m writing Part Two means that I didn’t follow my rules. Something kept pulling me in, even knowing it wouldn’t grow into anything bigger.

We met over a year ago at an engagement party — both of us seeing other people at the time. Seven months later, without a single word exchanged in between, we were at the wedding in Kyoto. We spent multiple days together without any romantic advances, yet I always found him by my side — an unconscious gravitational pull. We laughed, talked, and orbited each other without meaning to.

It was the little things like looping my arm in his on a walk to a bar because I was wearing heels and wanted the extra support. Or sitting next to each other at that bar, and not speaking a word to him as I yapped with my girlfriend sitting on the other side of me. Or at the wedding, when we found each other at the bar for a top-off, caught each other’s gaze and burst into laughter — one of those tiny, electric moments that meant nothing and everything at once.

We found ourselves roaming through Kyoto together, and a couple days later, Tokyo. We went to “Tonys” favorite izakaya restaurant (aka ‘Tony’ Bourdain). We found ourselves in Ebisu in search for the perfect martini, where I still remember the song that played in the background. We had a night cap tucked away in the Golden Gai, where I sang (awfully) to the song on stereo and he saw how I strike up conversation with strangers. We had our first kiss after way too many drinks in the streets of Shinjuku. When we left Tokyo — me back to LA and him heading off to travel the world — I knew I felt a little magic, but I also knew it was fleeting.

If you put two and two together after reading Part One, we ended up dating all summer, creating more of those magical moments. Memories that I didn’t plan to remember forever, but here we are.

I fell for him for a number of reasons, but I was mostly attracted to the way he carried himself. I’d gotten used to charismatic, charming men who loved to pound their chests about their achievements, like their the resumes, the pedigrees, the name-dropping, the big talkers and crowd pleasers.

But he was different. He showed me that the “alpha” I thought I wanted wasn’t the loudest in the room. He never felt the need to list his accomplishments or prove anything. He was hilariously (to me) unflashy — practical, grounded, borderline allergic to anything performative. He had incredible taste, but was never over the top about it.

He taught me what I actually wanted: a man who made my nervous system completely relax. I learned that real masculinity isn’t dominance or control. It’s confidence rooted in certainty, without any need to dominate. It’s someone who keeps you beside them, not because of status or performance, but because they genuinely want you there.

I didn’t have to perform or lead with him — but he also let me lead without telling me I was controlling. I could soften without shrinking. My femininity wasn’t something to negotiate or hide. It was something to embrace. I have a tendency to romanticize, to feel deeply, to hold meaning in… everything. But he never made me feel silly for that. He never made me feel like too much. He understood the way I love. And that was the gift.

It was the small things that stuck with me: the way he spoke to me, the way he listened, the way he held my hand. The touch of his hand on the small of my back or base of my neck. The calm in his touch. The softness in how he delivered a hard truth. The deliberate, intentional way he moved through the world — with me and with everyone around him.

He never gave me false hope. He didn’t over-promise. He didn’t speak in grand declarations. We weren’t building a life — we weren’t even pretending to. It was never a story of pursuit. Neither of us was chasing the other. We drifted in and out of each other’s lives in this uneven rhythm that kept bringing us back for a little while longer.

He had depth, but he also kept his distance. He felt close and unreachable at the same time. He was a caring man, but only in the ways he was able to be. I never got to see the fullness of him, because he knew he couldn’t meet me in the ways I wanted.

I also projected parts of my past and pain onto him. The insecurities and the patterns I carried from other men. But he met all of those parts of me with empathy. He’s lived a lot of life, and he just… understood me.

Despite it all, we made each other feel alive. We brought lightness and positivity into each other’s lives.

One time, someone told us we were their favorite couple at the gathering. Moments like that mirrored back how naturally we fit, how effortlessly we moved together. We had a spark.

The obvious question is, why did this end? One of the reasons is that he moved out of LA. He’s gone now, and I’m actively learning how to let him go — and it hurts exactly the way I expected it to.

We were recently outside of LA, watching the sky and the stars for what felt like hours. A massive shooting star lit up the sky and I said, “this is one of my favorite memories with you.” I wished upon that shooting star for that moment to last forever. I knew our time was coming to an end soon.

I dropped him off at the airport with a letter tucked into his backpack. As someone who likes to know the next step, I was genuinely stumped on how we’d navigate our communication once he left. So, I wrote him a letter explaining that — along with a lot more. We held each other tenderly, my legs wrapped around his waist, our faces buried in each other’s collarbones. We could barely look each other in the eyes and hardly exchanged words as we parted ways.

He wrote to me only a few days later and it was everything he couldn’t say to me in person. It was full of kindness, clarity, and admiration. It made our ending feel gentle. And as I re-read the letter over and over again, I noticed the kind of tears that came: not dramatic, not hysterical, not anxious, not delusional. Just deep, honest, tender tears.

There’s an intimacy in letters that surpasses any definition of a relationship. It’s speaking without interruption. It’s telling the truth without the fear of being misheard. It’s the safest closeness you can have with someone, even if you’re trying to let them go.

This experience reshaped my understanding of love. I used to think love needed a clear direction. A promised future. In fact, I’d force that idea. And if it didn’t have certainty, my anxious attachment would take over. But what we shared showed me that love doesn’t fit a mold.

This gave me a much broader definition of love. That love is the calm someone brings into your life. The way you feel like your truest self around them. It’s the rare feeling of being understood. It’s: “I see you and you see me.”

Being seen like that changes what you’re willing to settle for ever again. It reminded me of the fullness of who I am in the right energy. A woman who can hold depth and lightness at the same time. A woman who can be steady and soft, serious and silly, grounded and a little wild in the best way. And it made me realize I want a connection that welcomes all of me — without shrinking, competing with me, or being threatened by me. A connection rooted in respect.

When my best friend met him (who knew of our unusual dynamic), she said something simple that stayed with me: “This is the direction you’re going. This feels different for you.” And she was right. It was different — not because of what it could’ve been, but because of the kind of person he was. People who bring out the best in me. He set the bar high, in every way possible.

We healed each other in small ways. We brought out softness in each other. We gave each other lightness when we both needed it.

During a sunset date on a rooftop in Venice, a stranger came up to me and told me I was glowing. I laughed it off, but looking back, I always glowed around him. He brought out the most feminine, soft part of me. I always had a smile on my face. I was always at ease. I felt like sunshine.

And the other night, as I walked into dinner carrying a tender, broken heart, the hostess told me the same thing. It dawned on me that a glow like that lingers.

Yes, it’s sad we can’t be together, but he didn’t tear me down and I didn’t lose my self-worth. We’re choosing to move on from each other out of love — so I can move towards the life I want, a family and children, a future he knew wasn’t his to walk with me… and so he can choose the life that’s true for him too.

Loving someone doesn’t always mean you’re meant for the same future. Not every love is meant to become a life.

It feels incredibly scary to share something so personal, but if you made it this far… thanks for being here. To be honest, I’m afraid it’ll be misunderstood or judged, but that’s my own shit!

I’m not sure this piece will ever feel “ready” because I’m still in the middle of learning from it. For now, I’ve chosen to stop communication him. Staying connected would only keep me suspended between what we were and what we can’t move toward. Of course I want to pick up the phone to call. Wondering how he’s doing. Wishing we could sit at a restaurant bar and talk and laugh for hours. Those impulses doesn’t just disappear.

I never imagined that night in Tokyo would end up here. But some things are meant to be exactly what they were. I’ll always carry that glow, thanks to lessons from him. He’s no longer categorized as as lover. He was a big, beautiful love.

Love,
CAT 🕊️

I will miss this </3

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Part one: