this Post

Whenever Selena Gomez is mentioned in gossip, people always bring up her ‘failed’ relationship with Justin. Content creators spread Selena Gomez’s song “Lose You to Love Me” with a montage of pictures. Photos of Selena, Justin, and Hailey show the love triangle timeline. And I, trapped in the gossipy web, watch one video and then one hundred more. That short period of watching SJH content and listening to opinion pieces about them triggered a memory I thought I had put to rest long ago.

My ‘Failed’ Relationship

Like Selena, I was in one of those relationships.

Like Selena, I was that one person they left before they married someone else a few weeks later.

I didn’t get to dry my eyes before that person married and had kids with someone else. It was a whiplash of the worst kind.

Before the Selena, Justin, and Hailey situation, there was me, *June, and *Juliza with the loud red lipstick and bleach blond hair. In 2006, June came into my life like a “Wrecking Ball.” His easy banter and presence filled every room he entered. I couldn’t help but look when we were in the same room, and the more time I spent around him, the more I wanted to be a metal stuck to his magnet. It was so bad; I wanted to count every freckle on his body. But my upbringing held me back from the bold tendencies I wanted to embrace when I was around him.

Growing up, the matriarchs in my family taught me not to pursue a man. Although I was “Teenage Dream” enamored with this person and desperately wanted to touch him in every way, I didn’t pursue it.

However, this changed when I threw a house party and invited him.

Karaoke, cheap wine, and funny Christmas hats. He was the first to come through my door and the last to leave that night. Rihanna’s “We Found Love,” my legs wrapped in beige winter tights, the air buzzing with excitement, I was “Drunk in [Lust].” I was 28 going on 16, my armpits were swampy, lip gloss done kicked rocks, and I was in high school all over again, daydreaming while gripping a romance novel. June was a mixed-race Fabio with a bow-legged gate stepping off my favorite book’s cover.

Rihanna, my heart stomping against my chest, his fingers touching mine when we moved the furniture outside to make room for dancing, was all a sign. This was meant to be. He liked me. Right?

Those nodding in agreement, you are correct. We were meant to be, but only for a short time. Alas, with music in the background and my heart beating like a blast-beat, I was wrapped in lust-induced love and blind to any common sense.

But off we went on trips. We saw the coast of Spain together, dipped our toes in the sea together, rented these holes-in-the-wall places, and discovered things together. I met his family, and I thought he was the one. So wrapped I was in this delusion that I didn’t notice the hints he was throwing my way or the space he was leaving between us.

We couldn’t be together at work, which was a big deal to him, and it made him anxious, and he didn’t want to feel anxious every time we stepped into work. I also didn’t want to leave that job because I was secure in it, so we reached an impasse and agreed to disagree in silence. Yet, that silence created a gap between us, which, at first, I thought nothing of.

I now realize I needed to be more mature to broach the topic and ask. But my stomach clenched with fear at the thought of hearing the answer, which, deep inside, I knew what it was. So I masked my fears by telling myself every couple goes through a rough patch, right?

But the space between us became wide until it was wide enough to fit someone else.

The Other Person in the Relationship

As I remember this, everything moved in slow motion. I had gone on a trip to see my mom, and as I did, I left him the keys to my house and car so he could watch it, water my plants, and take care of my dog, which he did. But he also used the time to meet someone else. Someone who did not work with the same company we did.

His kiss was light and hallowed when he picked me up from the airport. But I thought nothing of it. Then when I hugged him, he didn’t press himself with the same intensity as I had, but I thought nothing of it. He dropped me off at home, and except for his heart, everything was right where I left it.

After taking a nap and clearing my head, I realized something was wrong, so I called him. But he didn’t respond. I refused to approach him at work because that would hurt both of us, and while I was getting anxious, I wasn’t reckless. And as with things that don’t fit neatly into boxes, I push this aside and continue about my day.

Suddenly, his schedule at work was different; we didn’t have the same hours. At the end of that day, I packed my bag and checked out of the building. The pointy toe of my boots shined against the dimming sun outside. Something told me to look up, and I did.

I locked eyes—my brown ones and June’s hazel ones stared at one another. Something told me to look down, so I ripped my gaze from his to the two hands gripping each other. There are thirty-five freckles on his right hand, and all thirty-five of them were holding hers. I opened my mouth to say something but closed it.

The security guard was staring at us. All three of us reached the gate together. Crammed in that small space, I watched June peel his hand away from hers, pull his badge to sign her in, and check himself in. She was giddy, excited to see the obscure place June works in and meet his work friends. It was then I realized that perhaps that was why there was extra commotion happening in the break room. Had June arranged to bring her over after my shift? The thought dug into my side like bad gas.

Still, I swiped my badge and effectively ended my day and our relationship. The burn from June’s stare stayed on my cheek till I reached my car. My breath hitched. As the engine roared, a pair of tears spilled over my cheeks, cooling the heat that settled there.

What No One Saw

Sometimes we read about these atrocious disasters, and we often only see the aftermath captured once the cameras arrive. Still, that gap between when it happened and when the cameras came leaves out what happened immediately after.

The bumps on the road covered the sound of my sobs. Each crevice on the asphalt brought down fresh tears, and each tear blurred everything I saw. Soon it was only a blurry yellow line and a blurry black road in front of me. Anyone that stopped at a light next to me seemed mildly put off by the swollen face crying in the car next to them. Still, I drove.

It’s been ages since I last drove my car into the garage. Driving into it made me realize I made the right call clearing it, as I couldn’t even fake a smile and say hello to my ever-present neighbor.

That day I wailed into the walls of an empty apartment. My dog barked around me at whatever was killing me, but he didn’t know that June was digging the knife from afar. I forget when I fell asleep, but I know I did. I also know I fell asleep with work clothes, shoes, makeup, and hair.

I remember throwing away the pillowcase the following day because it reminded me of the Shroud of Turin, only it didn’t have Jesus’ face but mine.

The Following Weeks

Having gone through many breakups before, I had a routine; I knew what to do. Yet this one punched me to the ground, and on a richter scale compared to my kid’s father’s breakup, this was a 7.9. To say that I cried for 1,700 hours would have been an understatement. I was a ball of emotions rolling through the streets, triggered by any little thing. From the statue of the baby peeing that we passed one night to every car that looked like his, so many things were landmines, and I was rolling on all of them. But I knew what steps to take to get rid of him.

I didn’t have them written, but I memorized them. Deleting all traces of June from my phone was the first thing I needed to do, but seeing June’s name made me cry all over again. I needed to move on from my past, but I didn’t want to leave my bed unless I had to go to work. But as it is with sadness, one day is heavy on one’s heart, and the next is a memory tattooed to it.

I was somewhere in the middle of that spectrum when I hit up the beautician down the street.

“Take out the curls,” I told her.

“But they are beautiful,” she said, bouncing them on her palm.

I shook my head to tell her I was serious. But deep down, my stomach squeezed because my natural curls are beautiful, and I was killing them to kill my heartbreak.

“And I want my hair red.” My voice croaked when I said this.

“Now you know,” she started. Her tone was a warning then.

“I know. I know.” She had told me before that because my hair is jet black, dying any drastic color will take a lot and may even damage it. But that day, I was on a warpath to change myself into someone who no longer remembered June. Plus, redheads have more fun, right?

Coming out of the beauty shop that day, I entered my F*** It Era.

Join me on a heartfelt journey of true-life love, loss, and self-discovery. Discover the challenges, emotions, and growth that accompanies heartbreak, along with a few song references of that time. Stick around to see how there’s hope in pursuing true love even when things seem gloomy. Subscribe now, and don’t miss out on this three-part series.