There were two of them. One with a “c”, one with a “k”. Different men, different stories, but for some reason—linked in my memory.
The first one, let’s call him Eric, saw me. Fully. I never had to shrink around him. I didn’t have to filter my emotions or apologise for needing connection. He was only two years older than me. Not mine to have. Complicated. And still, he made space for all of me in a way no one else had. With him, I felt seen. Desired. Real.
But I also had to protect myself. Because he wasn’t mine. Not really. So I dated other people during that time. I told myself I was being smart—guarding my heart. But the truth is, I was already in too deep.
We tried to break up so many times. But we kept finding our way back to each other. Eight months of longing, laughter, honesty, restraint, and then—suddenly—it was over. Not because we ended it, but because someone else did. He was killed. Just like that, he was gone. And a part of me never fully came back.
There are days I wonder what it would’ve been like if he had lived. If he had chosen me. If I had let myself believe in that love, even with all its complexity. I was 27. Maybe too young to make sense of it all. But 10 years later, I still remember how safe I felt with him.
Then came the second one. Let’s call him Erik. Same name, different spelling. When I matched with him, a small, irrational part of me hoped it meant something. That maybe the universe was offering me a do-over. That this time, the man with the name would be available. That this time, I’d get to have it all—love, safety, and a future.
But Erik was nothing like Eric. He made me feel like I was too much. Too emotional. Too needy. He told me I was tiring. He didn’t hold space. He held distance. And when I reached out for connection, he pulled away.
It ended not with a bang, but a shrug. I poured my heart out, tried to explain myself, tried to salvage something—and he responded with, “I don’t think that makes any sense anymore.”
I miss Eric. The first one. The one who died. I miss what we had and what we never got to become. I don’t remember anything bad about him—not because I’ve made him perfect in my mind, but because my body remembers how loved I felt. How seen.
Erik didn’t leave a wound. He reopened one.
And now, when I think about love, I wonder if I’m still searching for someone who feels like Eric—with a future attached. Someone who sees me fully and stays.
Maybe that’s what grief does. It folds love and longing into one shape. It makes you believe that what you lost might come back in another form.
But maybe some people only come once. And some names don’t mean anything at all.