MR.DALLAS and I Broke Up.
Here’s What Happened.
Two weeks before the bar exam.
A day before his scheduled flight to visit me.
Two days before our anniversary.
Four days before Valentine’s Day.
That’s when Luke, ("Mr. Dallas") walked away.
Quietly. Suddenly. With words that weren’t cruel, but were devastating nonetheless.
And in doing so, he made three things painfully clear—things I’d heard before, but never thought would become a closing argument:
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He said I was out of his league.
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He said my standards were too high.
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At least twice, in different conversations, Luke told me he wasn’t sure he could date a Black woman—not because of me, but because of how his family might respond. Note: He now says he never said this. But I remember it vividly—because I sat with it. I wrestled with it. I tried to love him through it.
I was blindsided. 100%.
At the time, I didn’t know what to make of it. Now, I do.
I thought love would be enough to transcend the discomfort. I thought I could help him grow into the kind of man who would look back one day and say, "I’m proud I stayed." But love can’t do all the lifting when one person is still afraid to name what they’re carrying.
But, let’s pause here.
PREFACE
Before I go any further, I want to acknowledge something important: Mr. Dallas chose to write a statement in response to this piece. He didn’t have to—but he did. His words, shared voluntarily, are linked [here]. I respect that. It shows he still wants to be heard. And maybe he should be—because understanding his voice only makes the rest of this clearer.
Now, a few things about this story and why I’m telling it.
So why am I telling this story?
Because this situation is different. I don’t normally talk about my romantic life online—certainly not in this much depth.
But this isn’t about revenge. It’s about clarity.
I’ve taken months to sit with this. I didn’t rush to post.
I didn’t weaponize my pain.
I let time do what time does—reveal what’s real, and what’s not.
It’s not a character assassination, a sub-post, or a cry for sympathy. I’ve protected him in ways I never protected myself. I gave him privacy in moments when I was unraveling. I told the truth only after praying about how it would land. Even now, you’ll see restraint baked into every line—not because I’m timid, but because I’m principled.
This article is not even about Luke—not really. This is about truth, context, and the emotional cost of being misunderstood. It’s about walking readers—perhaps especially women—through what it looks like when someone you love chooses fear over growth, and leaves you to carry both the weight and the witness.
Everything I share here is grounded in fact. I’ve kept records of our entire relationship for years. That includes messages, journal entries, audio clips, and handwritten letters. This isn’t speculation. It’s an archive of what actually happened.
I could have chosen another route. I could have released screenshots, voice notes, or the results of my own investigation into his past. But I didn’t. And I won’t. Because healing isn’t revenge—and clarity doesn’t need to humiliate anyone. To be clear, I will not publish the most damning evidence. That’s not what this is about. But I will share what’s necessary to tell the truth—and protect my peace. If you’re here expecting a takedown, you won’t find it.
This is not a hate piece. It’s a record.
If you walk away with anything, let it be this: This story was written with conviction, not contempt. I wanted peace. And if grace feels louder than grief in these pages, that’s because it is.
It’s an attempt to process what happened without rewriting the facts. Because what I want you to understand is that Mr. Dallas was loved deeply by me. And he wasn’t a villain. He was someone trying...someone learning.
And let me be even clearer—Luke has personally confirmed that I never disrespected him, never called him out of his name, and never once responded to him in malice. Not during the relationship, and not after. I led with dignity, even in heartbreak. That matters. So while I could say more, I won’t. Because I don’t need to scorch the earth to stand in the truth.
I will refer to my ex as either “Luke” or, occasionally, “Mr. Dallas.” That’s intentional. This story is about my experience, not his résumé.
Luke may never fully understand the emotional labor it took to write this. But I hope he understands this: it’s not written to him. It’s written through me—for anyone who’s been silenced, confused, or abandoned—and still chose grace.
Luke and his family were made aware of this piece prior to publication. They were invited to respond privately. That was a courtesy—not a requirement. I genuinely like Luke’s friends and family.
Many of you have shown kindness, grace, and quiet support that hasn’t gone unnoticed, and I appreciate that more than you know. Please continue to support Luke in this season. You don’t have to pick a side. You’re not being asked to. I simply ask for compassion—for both of us.
Not many women would offer what I did: context, clarity, and even a platform to respond. But that’s who I am. And that’s who I’ve always been.
Because as you’ll soon see—
this breakup wasn’t what it seemed.
This is just a breakup story, you’re not reading closely enough.
This is a story about fear, identity, silence, race, rupture—and the audacity it takes to narrate your own collapse without bitterness.
And I’m just getting started.
THE ANATOMY OF US – Table of Contents
How We Looked From the Outside
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The Man, the Mask, and the Myth of Mr. Dallas ("Luke")?
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He Treated Me Well. And Still, He Left.
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His Circle: The Men Who Told Me More Than They Knew
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Me, In Full
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What Love Looked Like—From My Side
Dynamics
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What It Was Like, Most Days
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Conversations That Gave Me Hope
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What Worked. What Didn’t.
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Friction, in Small Doses
The Unraveling
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The Call That Changed Everything
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Aftershock
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I Needed a Shield
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Mi Cocina, The Farm, and the Things That Went Unsaid
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ATX Wasn’t the Problem, But She Was the Pattern
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His Mind. My Theory. Our Ending.
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What He Said. What I Heard
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Luke, In His Own Defense
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The Things He Wouldn’t Say
RECONCILIATION
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From Lovers to… What?
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What It Would Take for Me to Open the Door
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Me, After It All
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Before you scroll further, a quick note.
These photos weren’t chosen to prove anything. They’re not curated for perfection. They’re not here to say, “Look how happy we were.”
They’re just moments—real ones.
Snapshots of a story I lived fully. A story where I showed up with love, joy, and presence.
I didn’t love passively. I loved with intention. I planned, I remembered, I made magic. So while the words above offer context—what follows is the visible imprint of care.
Even now, I believe you can remember someone fondly and still let them go.
I’m proud of how I loved. That’s what these are. Nothing more, and absolutely nothing less.
And if these smiles look real—it’s because they were. And maybe that’s the saddest part of all.
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How We Looked From the Outside
The Man, the Mask, and the Myth of Mr. Dallas ("Luke")
There’s a reason I called him “Mr. Dallas.”
Sure, it was the alias we used for him online. But also ?Luke carried a calm, rugged kind of energy that fit right into the city we called home—unbothered, self-contained, and beloved in rooms full of Southern charm and generational tradition. He could navigate anything: a corporate happy hour, a house party in Uptown, an intimate family dinner, or a post-game crowd at Texas Live. He wasn’t loud or flashy. Just grounded. Present. Capable. Safe.
He had a stillness to him that made you feel like everything might be okay. Like maybe, just maybe, the world would slow down if you stood beside him long enough.
He is, in many ways, the kind of man people feel immediately at ease around. Quietly observant, funny when he wanted to be, and instinctively attuned to the needs of others. A golden retriever in human form—loyal to a fault, eager to please, and genuinely content when the people around him were okay. I used to say he was my warmest quiet. The person I could sit beside in total silence and still feel held. My friends can attest that when we first met, I remember thinking: He looked like someone’s husband. Not just anyone’s. Mine.
Mr. Dallas graduated from Texas Tech University and built a solid career in cybersecurity. His work was technical, demanding, and low-glamour—just the way he liked it. He never craved attention. He preferred structure over spontaneity, reason over reaction, and order over chaos. I used to joke that he was a creature of habit—but there was a kind of poetry in it. He liked his routines because they made space for consistency, and consistency was one of the ways he showed love. He found comfort in routine and pride in being reliable. And while that made us opposites in some ways, it also grounded me. I thought Luke was the steady to my storm.
He was raised by a close-knit family, and it showed. His mother—whose name I’ll keep private out of respect—instilled in him a strong sense of discipline, faith, and quiet service. She raised a good man. One who knew how to carry tradition without weaponizing it. One who was both deeply Southern and quietly soft-hearted. You could feel the love that shaped him. Luke was taught to open doors, say thank you, and remember birthdays.
His bond with his brother was strong. His love for his Nana was sacred. He was consistent in his traditions, big on showing up, and never forgot a meaningful date. He knew how to host, how to be respectful, how to represent himself in any room. His moral compass, even when uncertain, was deeply sincere.
Mr. Dallas also held a set of principles that shaped how he moved in the world. He believed in personal responsibility. In trying to protecting the people he loved. In showing up for your family no matter what. He had a humility to him that I admired—he never overpromised, but when he committed, he meant it. He was thoughtful in his routines, dependable in his work, and surprisingly sentimental at times. He was more emotional than people realized. He just didn’t always know how to show it.
And I saw all of that. I valued it. I still do.
Sometimes I think he didn’t even realize how deeply people relied on him—how many of us found comfort in the steadiness of his presence. He was the kind of man you bragged about without ever needing to post. I don’t write any of this lightly. He wasn’t perfect, but he was real. And what I saw in him was someone built from care, integrity, and a desire to be good.
In the spirit of transparency—because that’s what this story is about—I’ll share something that may surprise some people. I’m a private person. I’m cautious, even meticulous, when it comes to trust. So yes, after we crossed from casual to serious, I ran a background check. Luke knew this—I showed him the report, laughed about it with him, and kept it tucked away. It’s something I do with anyone I invest deeply in. It’s not about suspicion. It’s about safety.
But after our breakup—when the story no longer made sense, when something felt… off—I went deeper. I conducted a broader investigation using only publicly available records. That might sound excessive, but I needed answers. I was heartbroken, blindsided, and trying to understand what I’d just lived through.
Originally, I considered publishing the findings here. I had even drafted a personal report. But I’m not doing that—not because I’m hiding anything, but because I know what that kind of exposure would do. It doesn’t serve a purpose. It doesn’t help anyone. And frankly, it doesn’t align with the kind of person I want to be.
This choice—to withhold what I could have shared—isn’t weakness. It’s restraint. It’s protection. Not just for Luke, but for me too.
He treated me well. And still, he left.
There’s no other way to say it: Mr. Dallas treated me beautifully. From the very beginning, he made me feel chosen—not just admired, not just desired, but truly, unequivocally his.
I thought he was attracted to me. Some of the first words out of his mouth when we met were:
"Oh my fucking God, you’re so hot."
Though he would go on to say kind, thoughtful things about my mind, my spirit, my heart... it was that moment I wrote down in my journal. It wasn’t just a compliment. It was a declaration, the kind of look that holds reverence, awe, and urgency. I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.
For a long time, I believed he saw me. Every need, every exhaustion, every moment I was too drained to take care of myself—he was already there, filling in the gaps.
He treated me like royalty. He called me his princess. Not in some flashy, performative way, but as if protecting me, taking care of me, was a reflex embedded into his bones. He never let me open a door. Not once. Not in all the years we were together. He carried my bags. If I was cold, he was already wrapping his jacket around my shoulders before I could ask. If I looked tired, he'd pull me close, whispering, "Close your eyes, baby. I got you."
Luke was a caretaker in ways I didn’t even know I needed.
When my stress was at its peak, when the weight of my responsibilities was suffocating me, Luke didn’t wait for me to ask for help—he anticipated my needs before I even voiced them.
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He stocked his kitchen with my favorite vegan foods every time I visited.
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He cooked for me when I was too overwhelmed to feed myself.
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He’d Uber Eats my favorite meals to my apartment, unprompted, just because he knew I was having a bad day. I’d hear the knock on my door, check my phone, and see his message: "Eat something, baby. I love you."
He didn’t just love me—he made sure I felt it.
Daily. Dependably. Deeply. Like a foundation I could stand on.
It wasn’t just the big gestures. It was the everyday things that made his love feel undeniable.
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He drove everywhere. I didn’t touch a steering wheel unless I insisted.
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His hand was always on my lower back, guiding me through crowds like a silent, protective force.
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He wrote me love letters—pages of devotion, handwritten, filled with words I still have tucked away.
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He massaged my shoulders after long study sessions.
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He played soft music while I studied—never loud, always thoughtful.
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He’d light candles before I came over—the scent of peace already in the air.
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He always offered the last bite—even when it was his favorite.
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He tried his best to remembered the little things: my favorite snack, my second-favorite champagne.
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He bought me flowers without occasion—just because Tuesday felt too plain.
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He spoke affirmations into me constantly.
"You’re smart."
"You’re sexy."
"You’re stunning."
"You got this."
For several years, I thought Luke was everything. The kind of man women dream of—the kind who doesn’t just say he loves you, but shows it in a million ways, big and small.
Until he didn’t.
Because here’s the hard truth about actions vs. words: What good is being treated like a princess if the man crowning you doesn’t think you deserve the throne? What’s the point of all that love, if the one giving it won’t stand when it matters most?
When it counted—when I needed presence over platitudes, spine over sentiment—Mr. Dallas, the same man who told me I was out of his league, made a choice.
And it wasn’t me.
His circle: the Men Who Told Me More Than They Knew
Among Mr. Dallas' friends, a few stood out—not for how loud they were, but for how quietly they embodied self-awareness. Those people were UG and JMC.
UG: Style as Self-Awareness
From the start, UG’s presence registered as distinct. Not performative. Not overdone. Just consistent. His style, while never showy, reflected a level of self-awareness that was difficult to ignore. There was alignment between who he was and how he presented. His wardrobe spoke the same language as his demeanor: composed, intentional, unbothered.
It wasn’t about fashion. It was about coherence.
UG didn’t appear to be signaling anything for social approval; rather, his clothing choices suggested an internal clarity—a man at ease with his identity, or at the very least, unafraid to present it.
I remember telling Luke this—not to compare, not to criticize, but to highlight something I believed deeply: your style can be an extension of self. It doesn’t have to be expensive. It doesn’t have to follow trends. But when it’s intentional, it communicates confidence and coherence. I brought UG up as someone whose clothing felt honest. Not a performance, but a mirror.
And it wasn’t just the look—it was the quality. UG wore pieces that were well-made, well-fitted, and clearly chosen with care. That kind of attention speaks volumes. Quality signals respect for self. It says: I know what I value—and I dress accordingly. That doesn’t require a label. It requires self-knowledge.
When I reflect on Mr. Dallas in comparison, it’s not to suggest he lacked style or substance. It’s to say that UG offered an example of someone who dressed as an extension of his personality—not a mask, not a costume, but a conversation with the world.
I never wanted Luke to emulate UG.
I hoped, quietly, that he might recognize the power of authenticity—and understand that confidence doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it’s implied.
JMC: When Intelligence Meets Awareness
I’ve always been someone who notices details—not just in words, but in actions. In the way people move, the way they listen, the way they make space for others. And in Mr. Dallas' entire circle of friends, JMC stood out.
Not in a loud way. Not in a way that demanded attention. But in a way that quietly, consistently communicated depth, intelligence, and awareness—qualities that, for me, commanded quiet respect.
JMC was one of the only friends of Mr. Dallas' I could engage with on a truly intellectual level.
We could talk about anything—history, government, the way systems intertwine, the nuance behind decisions and culture. While others kept things surface-level, he offered depth—thoughtfully, consistently, and without performance. And more than that, he could listen. There was no glazed-over, waiting-for-his-turn-to-speak energy. When I spoke, he processed. He didn’t just acknowledge my words—he engaged with them. And when someone listens to you like that, you feel it. That’s not something you can fake.
He wasn’t performative with his intellect. He had range. JMC was thoughtful, self-disciplined, curious—someone who led with intellect but wasn’t limited by it. I remember conversations where I’d walk away thinking, I actually enjoy talking to him. He actually gets it.
But what set him apart most—what made me remember him long after—was that he wasn’t just intelligent. He was aware. It’s one thing to be book smart. It’s another to be socially and emotionally intelligent in ways that make people feel considered.
One small moment stands out.
I had just spent hours straightening my hair for an event Luke and I were attending. If you know anything about Black hair care, you know that humidity is the enemy—one wrong move and hours of effort can vanish. When we made plans to meet up with JMC and his wife, HC, the original plan was to sit outside. I remember having an internal pause. I was the only Black person in the group, and I didn’t want to seem “extra” or high-maintenance, but I also didn’t want to undo all that effort.
Luke casually said, “Hey, Taylor just did her hair, can we sit inside?” I didn’t expect much—just a quick change in plans. But JMC immediately agreed—and when I arrived, he asked me about it. Not performatively. Not nervously. Just curious. Just real.
“That makes so much sense,” he said. And he meant it.
It might sound trivial, but that moment stuck with me. Because what it showed was this: he understood that experiences outside his own were still worth respecting. That empathy doesn’t always need an announcement. That care can be quiet—and still deeply felt.
That is respectable.
That is rare.
So when JMC reads this, I hope he knows something: I saw him too.
I saw the discipline. The wellness. The quiet intelligence that doesn’t need to posture. I noticed how he engaged where others deflected. How he asked questions instead of assuming. And when HC ever reads this too—I want to say this with care: my respect for JMC’s awareness was never personal in the wrong sense. It was observational. It was respectful. It was human. And as someone who also values thoughtfulness and emotional intelligence, I recognized it in him—and I respected the dynamic you two brought into that space.
That night, it mattered that you were both there.
I remember moments they probably thought were insignificant—because that’s the kind of person I am.
I document everything.
And at the end of the day, respect is earned. He earned mine.
And if nothing else, I hope they both know that.
Love Letters from Mr. Dallas
Luke and I exchanged letters—pages of devotion, reflection, and romantic promise. He wrote with conviction. With vulnerability. With the kind of language that made me believe we were building something meant to last.
At the time, I believed him.
And to be honest, I still believe he meant it—when he wrote it.
The following excerpts are pulled directly from the letters Mr. Dallas gave me throughout our relationship.
I’ve kept every single one. Not out of sentiment, but as a record of what was said.
Because the words were beautiful.
And because, in hindsight, they remind me that even the most sincere declarations can still live in tension with someone's choices.
"I just want to express how much it means to me to breathe the same air as you do. Being around you gives me so much comfort, peace, love and happiness. I feel blessed to be with you."
"I truly don't want anyone else by my side."
"I have never felt this way about anyone before but you. I never want to lose the spark we have, our bond is so strong and I love it so much.
"I love you with all my heart. The love and care I have for you will never fade."
“I have never felt like this about anyone in my life. You are my priority.”
“Just being with you gives me a lot of peace. You make everything around me seem easy, simple and fun.”
“You give me freedom to express myself, freedom to be myself. You also keep me on the right path. You understand me and understand how I feel and I think that’s why we get along so well you understand my thoughts and my feelings it’s basically like you’re in my head, which is where I’d love you to be.”
“All in all I’m going to support you, take care of you, protect you and watch over you for the rest of my life and I will do whatever it takes to make you feel safe, protected, and secure with me no matter what happens today tomorrow next week or years to come you are mine now and forever. I love you and support you always. I love you with all my heart.”
“I love you madly.”
Love, Luke
Me, In Full
The basic details about me? You can find those in the "About" section of this blog. But beyond the basics, who am I really?
I’m a descendant of the Fulani people—a lineage steeped in nobility and military service, stretching from the royal courts of West Africa to the Revolutionary War battlefields of America. My ancestors were princes who, despite enslavement, never lost their dignity or warrior spirit. I’m also a direct descendant of a black Revolutionary War hero.
We have a plaque/monument in the Northern United States honoring more than 101 family members who served this nation across generations and historic wars. This unbreakable legacy of resilience is a cornerstone of who I am. You can read more about my deep bloodline [here].
I’ve reinvented myself four times. You can read about the latest [here].
I am warmth wrapped in intention, devotion stitched with depth. I love deeply, thoughtfully, and with purpose. I’m sweet, kind, and soft-hearted, but I am also steadfast, unwavering, and loyal.
My faith guides me—I believe in love as an act of service, as something to be nurtured and treasured. I believe in creating a life full of love, memories, and intention, not just for myself but for the people I cherish.
I am romantic, affectionate, and deeply sentimental. I remember the little things—the song that played in the background of our first conversation, the way your eyes light up when you talk about your passion, the way you like your coffee depending on the day. I pay attention—not just because I love, but because knowing you is how I love.
I am the girlfriend who prays for you, roots for you, and sees your potential even before you do. I uplift, I inspire, I encourage. I keep things exciting—I love spontaneity, small surprises, grand gestures, and everyday tenderness. I am the type of woman who makes you feel seen, understood, and deeply cared for.
I don’t love halfway.
I love with my whole heart, and I love in a way that you’ll never forget.
Even if you try to.
What Love looked like-from my side
I don’t just love—I study. I document. I remember.
For years, I wrote about Mr. Dallas in my journal.
Not just random entries—but observations, patterns, conversations, quiet moments he never realized I was capturing. I wrote to know him better. To love him better. To understand him more deeply. I wrote so no detail was ever lost—so that every act of care I offered was intentional.
When I care about someone, I make them my priority—not just through words or gestures, but in how I learn them.
The little things matter. I don’t forget them.
If you mention something once, I write it down.
If you say you like something, I take note.
If you share a dream at 2 a.m., I will remember it—and I’ll try to help you build it.
I had an entire Notes app dedicated to him—his favorite meals, his exact food orders, his shoe size, the brands he loved, the colognes that smelled best on him.
I knew his order at every restaurant, down to the modifications that made it his. If he ever called me and said, “Hey, what do I like at ___?”—I already had the answer.
Not because I needed to.
Because I chose to.
Because loving him meant learning him.
And that’s the kind of partner I am.
I don’t guess. I know.
I make the people I love feel like the most understood version of themselves.
Which is why, when that care isn’t reciprocated—or protected—
it leaves a silence you can’t just apologize for.
Below are a few entries from my journal—
written in real time, with real love.
Not curated. Not rewritten.
Just how I saw him. Just how I felt.
The Verge of Love
I feel like I am on the verge of love with Luke—and I need to stop.
Luke and I have been dating for two to three months, and I already like him more than I’ve liked most people I’ve dated before. So strange.
It’s too early to say anything, but still... it feels like more.
Something about him just reaches me.
Respect & Validation
Luke said that he likes me a lot and is thankful for how I treat him. He told me I wasn’t like anyone else he’s dated.
He said I respected him—and that was something his ex didn’t do. Apparently she wasn’t kind, didn’t respect his time, his feelings, anything.
Note to self: always respect Luke.
Hear him out. Make him feel validated.
That matters to him.
When I’m With Him
Luke makes me so happy.
I’ve never met another person—another man—who makes me feel the way he does.
Everything about him is perfect.
Yes, he has flaws. But I like him and those flaws.
Every time I’m with him, it’s like a dream.
It’s just easy. We click.
I don’t know how our lives will work out in the future, but...
I want him to be the one.
Continued...
And I didn’t just memorize his likes—I planned for them.
If I knew he was going to be hungry after or during a meeting, I didn’t wait for him to tell me. I just showed up with his favorite enchiladas: beef with chile con carne, chicken with sour cream, cheese with queso no onions (See Notes app screenshots to fact check). Extra chips and salsa. With a Sprite or an Orange Gatorade, depending on his mood.
He never had to ask, because I already knew.
I Don’t Just Love—I Elevate Because I Loved Him
I believe love is about more than just showing up—it’s about showing out. I don’t build futures off assumptions; I move when a man gives me the green light.
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For our anniversary? I took him to March Madness at Madison Square Garden. He had always wanted to go, so I made it happen.
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For his birthday? I took him to a personal stylist. We popped champagne. He explored his style. He was beaming. I wanted him to feel confident, wanted, and sharp.
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Because he loved the Rangers? I surprised him with World Series playoff tickets. The view wasn't the best, but watching his face light up was priceless. Before the game, we went to the team store, and he picked out a Corey Seager jersey. It was $200. I paid for it. I didn’t blink. That’s what you do when you love someone: you create moments they’ll never forget.
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Because he loved Texas Tech? I surprised him with basketball tickets on NYE. But I didn’t just hand them to him—I made a whole PDF mock-up. It looked like an official press invite: team colors, bold fonts.
Like he was getting drafted by his own joy. He laughed, he lit up, he felt seen. That was the point.
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For his 30th? I told him not to plan a thing. I had already started planning: a club-style venue in Dallas, a few friends to co-host, a deposit ready to go; he told me no one had ever thrown him an adult birthday party before. I was ready to change that.
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For our shared birthday? I planned a private party at a hidden speakeasy. Mr. Dallas said he wanted to celebrate our love and our birthdays together—and I did too. So I made it happen. I designed custom invitations, locked down the venue using my connections at Akai, and hosted one of the most memorable nights of our relationship. Champagne. Password entry. Curated playlists. Everything was intentional.
And it was ours.
And when he traveled with me? I made sure every trip felt effortless. I handled the planning, the packing reminders, the car service. His snacks were packed. His shows were downloaded. The room was scented and set. I made travel feel like luxury, not logistics. Because when you're with me, everything feels like it’s already handled.
Even at home, I brought intention into the smallest things:
The wine I knew he liked.
The playlists he never had to request.
The outfits I chose because I knew he'd compliment them before I even walked out the door.
The tiny surprises on random Tuesdays.
The joy of making him feel deeply wanted in every room we walked into.
Because when I love you, I’m thinking five steps ahead.
And when I show up, I elevate everything around you.
I Create a Love You Can Feel
I don’t just make my partner feel loved—I make him feel cherished. That means knowing what Mr. Dallas needs before he even has to ask.
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If he was working from home, I turned his space into a sanctuary. I made him lunch like I was running a restaurant, took his order, plated it with care, cleaned his space so he could focus.
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If he had back-to-back meetings, I’d Uber Eats him Chick-fil-A breakfast without him having to say a word. Just a simple text: “Hey baby, food’s on the way. I love you.”
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I paid attention to his love languages—affirmation, touch, small surprises, making life easier in the ways that matter.
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And when it came to passion? It was effortless. I stayed sexy, stayed exciting, stayed intentional in how I kept the spark alive. Lingerie. Roleplay. Thoughtfulness. I made sure he always felt wanted, even on the days he didn’t feel like much.
I Love Your Family Like My Own
The way I love? It extends beyond just my partner. I care about the people who made you who you are.
When Luke moved out of his one-bedroom apartment and into a two-bedroom in the same complex to live with his brother, we were still together. I remember the first weekend I visited them in that new place—his brother had just moved in. I stayed the weekend, got to know the space, and after I left, I sent a gift.
Not to Luke.
To his brother.
It was a curated gift box—something like this:
a mix of video game-themed cookies
and beers tailored to his interests.
I knew he liked video games.
I knew he liked beer.
I just wanted him to feel liked. Considered.
He told Luke I was thoughtful. Said he appreciated it. It wasn’t a big thing. But that’s kind of the point—I didn’t need a reason to be kind. I was already thinking like someone who saw his family as mine.
And it didn’t stop there.
During Christmas, I wanted to do something special—not just for him, but for his Nana. I went to Michael’s, bought supplies, and taught myself how to make a handwoven blanket just for her. She was known for making blankets—every child and grandchild had one, including Luke. We used his all the time.
But no one had ever made her a blanket.
So I did.
Here is the video I learned from - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4CnZn8k1USU.
I spent two days learning and weaving, putting love into every stitch. And when I gave it to her, she cried. We took a picture together, and she told me, “I would love to make a blanket for you when you and Luke get married.”
That moment meant everything to me. I told her I would cherish it forever if that day ever came. Because I don’t just love a man—I love the people who raised him, who shaped him, who he loves. That’s what legacy love looks like.
I Love With My Whole Heart
One thing about me? I’m not just a girlfriend. I’m a partner. I support, I uplift, I inspire.
I love myself, I take care of myself—I go to the gym, I have a self-care routine, I stay polished. Not because looks are everything, but because attraction is ongoing, and I want my man to always feel like he’s winning. Like he chose right.
And when I give love, I give it freely. We said I love you to each other every single day, multiple times a day. I never yelled at him, never cussed him out, never disrespected him. If something bothered me, I communicated, and he listened. And when he made changes, I noticed. I appreciated.
My names for him?
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Shawty
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Luu, Lulu, Lukey Pie
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Teddy – because he was the first man who ever made me feel safe at the time.
The Love You Don’t Forget
I journal everything. I write about the things that matter to me, the things I never want to forget. And I wrote about him—about how we laughed, about how we loved, about how he made me feel. And maybe one day, he’ll look back and realize that the kind of love I gave him?
That’s the kind of love you don’t find twice.
Here are some quotes from my journal that explain how I felt about Mr. Dallas.
It still stuns me—how deeply I loved, and how quietly it ended.
I used to keep my guard up. Never too attached. Always keeping my options open.
And yet, there I was.
Deep in my lover girl era.
Putting my faith in someone. Believing in love. Giving my all.
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The Hair Compliment
"When we got back from dinner, he complimented me on my hair six times.It was funny—he kept saying, 'I really like your hair like this,” all throughout the day. I had worn it down, which I don’t usually do. Sometimes I feel insecure about that, but apparently he really loves it. I need to remember this. To remind myself that I’m beautiful. And Luke thinks so too."
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Dynamics
The hardest part about writing this isn’t retelling the love—it’s realizing it didn’t just disappear.
Love like that stays in the bones, even when the body walks away.
I loved him fully. Unconditionally. Without fear.
I truly believed he loved me the same.
We were everything to each other.
I never—not even once—thought he’d leave.
Future Dreams
I don’t usually picture the future with men I date.
Too many vanish before the ink is dry.
But with Mr. Dallas? He gave me permission to dream. He gave me the green light.
Just a week before the breakup, we were still talking about baby names (he wanted a Luke Morgan B. Jr., "LBJ" for short),
debating parenting styles, and mapping out our life—
freezing my eggs, where we’d relocate, a jeweler for an engagement ring, how we’d merge finances.
We weren’t just dating. We were building something. Something real. Something meant to last.
Affection & Connection
Luke and I shared uncanny overlaps—same birthday, same middle name, sisters with the same name, same faith, private school backgrounds.
It became a running joke: “Of course we do.”
But it wasn’t just the surface. We were yin and yang.
He steadied me. I expanded him. It worked.
Or at least, I thought it did.
We both said it: This is the best relationship of my life. I know every detail—because I wrote everything down, from the day we met. And whenever doubt crept in, I’d reread those moments to remind myself: this love is real.
He called me his princess. I made him feel safe.
It wasn’t performative. It was mutual caretaking.
We believed we were that couple. The kind you just know will make it.
Everyday Intimacy
We barely fought. When we did, we fixed it.
We respected each other’s hobbies—his Xbox, my journaling.
We made space, gave grace, stayed connected.
We couldn’t keep our hands off each other in public.
Always touching. Always laughing.
Morning texts. Goodnight calls.
Midday I-love-yous and “just checking on you” texts.
If I fell asleep early, he’d pause his game and talk to me until I drifted off.
He told me—over and over again—that he never wanted to lose me.
Money & Practicality
Money never caused tension. He liked to pay. I was mindful.
I’d sneak in my treats. He let me. It was balance. I’d never let it get too out of hand.
We planned big trips, talked through budgets.
I’d itemize costs. He appreciated how I made the abstract feel secure.
Zillow tabs were always open. We dreamed out loud. And it never felt ridiculous. It was never just talk; it felt tangible, like the natural next step.
Family Ties
We spent the past holiday with each other’s families. I liked his family—we shared dinners, went to a Dallas Stars game, and laughed over wine. This past Christmas, my mom gave Luke 20 to 35 gifts. Her exact words? “I feel like Luke is my child too.” He told me later that he felt “so loved.”
His side embraced me. His mother mailed me a card: “Welcome to the family.” She told me I was good for Luke—that she could see how happy I made him. His brother would text me for dating advice or to gossip about reality shows.
We weren’t just dating. Our lives were intertwined—woven like two threads in the same fabric.
Love Letters & Tokens
Luke and I wrote each other real love letters. Pages of devotion.
I kept every one. They weren’t fluff. They were emotional architecture.
If I felt unsure, I’d reread them.
And just like that, I’d remember why I trusted him.
Our rituals made us feel young. At Dave & Buster’s, he’d win me plushies.
I sprayed them with his cologne. Kept them in bed when I missed him.
We even named a cocktail Pikachu at our Akai birthday party.
It was an inside joke. A soft one. Like most of what we shared.
Long-Distance Routine & Thoughtfulness
For years, we had a system: one month, I’d go to Dallas; the next month, he’d come to Pennsylvania. We tried to stretch each visit so we could spend as much time together as possible.
We both hated the distance, but we managed to make it work because we believed it was only temporary.
Whenever he came to see me, I made sure his favorite snacks were stocked and his slippers were by the door. I’d have a menu planned out for the entire stay, checking daily to see what he was craving. He did the same for me in Dallas—there was always vegan food ready when I arrived.
According to our phone records, we talked over 2,000 minutes a month talking.
We texted constantly. Missed each other mid-call.
It felt like we were always in each other’s pockets—happily.
Our Adventures
Luke used to say, “You plan it, I’ll pay for it.”
And I did.
I researched every restaurant, every itinerary, every surprise.
He always had a say—nothing was ever one-sided—but he trusted my taste (Travel blogger perks.) And once the trip began? He’d take over.
Hold my hand. Handle logistics. I’d relax. We moved like a well-oiled machine.
We traveled often—Kansas City, Seattle, New York, Philly, Miami. Recently, we went to Rome and Almafi Coast (Positano and Capri). The travel guides are linked below and you can watch the travel vlog that Luke is in [here].
But the best memories weren’t in 5-star restaurants or rooftop bars.
They were on the couch.
His hand on my hip.
Takeout containers between us.
Just being.
We were a team. Different roles, shared vision. We were building something real. Something permanent. A life rooted in love, laughter, and loyalty.
And yet… here I am.
Because he did.
And that’s what makes this so heartbreaking. Luke left behind a love that was still alive.
Rome TRAVEL GUIDE
Rome was where I started writing about him like he was permanent—and part of me believed he was.
Capri Travel Guide
Capri felt like a fairytale, and I have the sea cave footage to prove it.
Positano Travel Guide
He said the view was unreal, but he was looking at me—and that’s when I knew I was all in.
To My Favorite Girl,
You mean so much to me—I don’t even know if you could fully comprehend it.
I love having you by my side. I never get tired of us being joined at the hip 24/7—it’s the best part of my day, every day.
You make me float when I’m with you. Honestly, there aren’t words strong enough to describe what you mean to me.
But I’ll say this the only way I know how:
I love you.
Unconditionally.
Teddy! :)
Teddy
The Unraveling
People assume breakups happen in a moment. One conversation. One dramatic fight. One walk-out-the-door event.
But this one didn’t feel like that.
This one felt like a door quietly closing from the inside—and me standing on the other side, not realizing I’d just been locked out.
I didn’t see it coming. Not like this. Not after everything. Not after we had just talked about marriage. Not after we said “I love you” as easily as breathing. We weren’t a couple on the brink—we were still planning. Still dreaming. Still syncing calendars.
So when it ended, I didn’t just lose a relationship.
I lost my rhythm.
I lost my emotional oxygen.
I lost the version of myself who believed this story had a safe landing.
The Call That Changed Everything:
I was standing in a Ford dealership when everything changed.
We were still planning our anniversary. Still texting sweet nothings. Still talking about Valentine’s Day and where we’d celebrate next. There was no coldness. No sign of distance. No shift in rhythm.
So when the phone rang, I didn’t brace myself for anything. I answered like any other day.
And then he said it.
That he had been unhappy—for a week.
That he didn’t feel like himself.
That he felt like he was changing.
I asked, gently, “Is there anything I can do?”
He said, “No.”
That was it.
No warning. No prior conversation. Just a quiet, complete emotional withdrawal—as if he had already packed up and left, and this was just a courtesy call.
And I was so shocked, so completely blindsided, that the first thought in my head was:
“This man must have a brain tumor. Or a parasite. Something’s messing with his frontal lobe.”
Because nothing he was saying made sense—not based on the man I knew. Not based on the relationship we built.
I was confused. I told him, “I love you so much. I have the bar exam in two weeks. I would do anything for you. I would cut off my limb for you.”
He said, "I know."
And then I said something I think about often:
“I didn’t know you were unhappy.”
Because I didn’t. I truly didn’t.
And the saddest part? He agreed. He told me he never said a word. Never signaled distress. Never gave me a chance to fight for us.
I always told him: If something feels off, tell me. And he didn’t.
And even Luke—even he—admitted that he never voiced a problem big enough to justify this kind of exit. He just…left.
Somewhere in the conversation, he told me: “You can take back anything you’ve given me for our anniversary.” As if love was a returns department.
I told him: “Luke, I bought you a PlayStation 5. I didn’t just love you—I invested in your joy. I thought about the curve of your back and the comfort of your game night. I anticipated needs you hadn’t voiced."
Not just the console. I bought him the remote controller so he could lay in bed and play comfortably. I upgraded his audio setup, got him the PS5 accessories, everything. I thought about his posture, his comfort, his joy. I made his little gaming life easy—because that’s what you do when you love someone.
And oh—let’s not forget the underwear.
I bought him a custom rhinestone thong that said “LUKE” on the back. Diamonds across the cheeks. A playful, sexy little surprise. Something soft and fun for someone I adored.
I gave him everything.
And when I needed reassurance—needed reciprocity—he gave me silence.
No plan. No explanation. No, “Let’s talk more after the exam.”
Just:
“I don’t feel like myself.”
And then:
“I don’t think I want to be with you.”
Then he ghosted and unfollowed me on Instagram. That’s how it ended.
Not with honesty. Not with closure.
But with confusion, contradiction, and the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t let you breathe for weeks.
Aftershock
I wish I could say I was okay.
But the truth? I spiraled.
I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t study. I lost 20 pounds.
I was two weeks out from the bar exam, and the person I thought would be at the finish line—the person I had just built a whole future around—was gone.
Not slowly. Not gently. Just… gone.
And what makes all of this harder to explain—harder to even believe sometimes—is that I did it while everything else was collapsing too. This wasn’t just heartbreak. This was heartbreak while my weight was dropping. While my sleep was fractured. While my future felt like it was falling apart in real-time.
I had panic attacks before practice MPTs. I’d open outlines and just start crying. I’d forget what day it was. I still sat for the bar. I still showed up. But I was running on fumes and faith.
And then—there was the club.
Yes, the club. A place I had no business being in. I was trying to pretend I was okay. Friends. Music. Lip gloss. Pain. I started crying in a nasty a** bathroom, wiping my face with some janky, half-wet napkin. And somehow—because God wanted to humble me—I nearly cut my damn eye on that dirty napkin.
Yes. A napkin.
I looked at myself in the mirror—mascara streaked, foundation cracking, eyes wild—and I said out loud: “Taylor. We gotta get it together.”
That was the reset. The reckoning.
Sometimes rock bottom doesn’t look like a dramatic life event.
Sometimes it looks like a woman in heels, crying under club lights, almost getting injured by a paper product, telling herself: “This is not your final form.”
And through all of that? I never once dumped my pain into his inbox.
I didn’t perform heartbreak for sympathy. I didn’t spiral into explanations. I accepted what happened and chose peace—without demanding anything in return.
But I did reach out.
Because we had promised each other: when one person gives up, the other fights.
So that’s what I did. For seven days. God made the world in seven, so I figured I could extend the same grace to Luke.
I called him two or three times—left calm messages, no pleading, no drama. I sent a voice memo labeled “I Didn’t Want Any Regrets”. I texted him—two or three messages total. Not to beg. But to take accountability for anything I could have done better. To offer a path forward. To give reconciliation a chance.
It wasn’t desperation.
It was dignity in motion.
It was the kind of love that says: “I’m still here. If you want to talk, I’m ready.”
And when he didn’t answer, I stopped.
I couldn’t breathe deeply. I’d walk into rooms pretending I was fine while silently begging God not to let anyone ask me how I was doing.
And yet—somehow—I still managed to write.
To pray.
To carry my grace like armor.
To open my Bible and remind myself, even through tears, that I was not alone.
That there was a rock higher than me.
And I clung to that rock with every ounce of strength I had left.
I’m still processing that part of my story. I’ll talk more about it later—maybe in a blog post, maybe in a book—because what happened to me during that time wasn’t just painful. It was catastrophic.
My whole life blew the fuck up.
And the worst part? I couldn’t even scream. Because silence was safer than pity. I didn’t want people looking at me like a cautionary tale. I wanted to be seen as whole, even as I was bleeding.
Every single foundation I thought I could stand on cracked beneath me at once.
My career.
My relationship.
My mental health.
My body.
My stability.
And I survived it. Barely, but I did.
That deserves its own story. But for now, just know this: My resilience is outrageous.
The kind of mental toughness you don’t develop unless you’ve been spiritually drafted by God Himself. The kind of strength I carry wasn’t gently developed. It was forged in fire, in isolation, in silence no one saw and pressure no one understood. I wasn’t just tested—I was trained.
Not by choice. But by circumstance.
Not in comfort. But in collapse.
I was refined by things that should’ve broken me.
And yet—here I am.
What survived? You’re reading it now.
And Then Came the Interrogation
And if I’m being fully transparent, one of the worst parts of this entire unraveling was the publicity of the fallout—and I use that word lightly, because I live a deeply private life.
But private for me still means thousands of people are watching.
I curate. I protect. I keep things close—not because I’m hiding, but because I value peace. But even then, even with all my restraint, the little that made it through was enough to turn my heartbreak into a public riddle I had to solve over and over and over again.
And when it ended?
I became the one who had to carry the silence.
People asked questions.
They poked. They speculated.
They wanted a story. And for years, I’ve felt like I’ve been on the stand—on trial for my own life.
And it wasn’t just about the relationship. It was everything.
My job.
My bar results.
My blog.
My travels.
My body.
My future.
Luke.
All of it—up for questioning.
And the wildest part? I answered every single one with grace or with silence if I could not answer. With composure. With the kind of poise people don’t recognize as pain.
When I was quiet, I didn’t stay silent because I didn’t know what to say.
I stayed silent because I knew saying the whole truth would burn everything down
So, grace became my armor. Silence became my sword. And poise? Poise was my publicist.
At a certain point, I felt like I was living in heartbreak syndication. The same conversation, just reruns:
“Wait — where’s Luke?”
“We’re not together anymore.”
“Oh my gosh, nooo…”
“I know.”
“Nooo!”
“Yes.”
“But I thought you two were going to get married!”
“YEAH. Me too.”
Cue the awkward silence.
Cue the polite blink.
Cue the existential shrug of a woman who’s trying to hold it together while people casually walk through the ruins of her life like it’s an open house.
That’s literally how this article came to life—Because if I have to keep answering questions while bleeding through a smile, I might as well just drop a link and say: “Here. Start on paragraph six. That’s where the emotional carnage begins.” Because even though I was unraveling privately, I was expected to perform peace publicly.
That was a fucking nightmare.
To live through heartbreak and interrogation.
To be in recovery mode while the world around you acted like it deserved an explanation.
To carry silence as a full-time job when I never even posted the relationship.
The relationship wasn’t public. But the absence? Was. And I was left to manage the weight of that absence while also managing my own healing.
People think silence is easy. It’s not.
Mr.Dallas' Words That Don’t Match the Ending
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“You are my life and I cannot lose you.”
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“I love you and will always work with you on this.”
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“You’re so wonderful in every way and you’re such a blessing in my life.”
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“I love you so much and you make my life so complete.”
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“I’ve never loved someone this much before and have never felt this good in a relationship with anyone before.”
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“You do so much for me that I feel like I can never return the favor.”
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“Let’s take this one step at a time.”
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“You’re the best girlfriend ever. You’re so awesome!!”
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“I can’t believe I date you. You’re so wonderful. I love my girlfriend.”
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“I want to keep growing with you in every way possible.”
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“You make everything better.”
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“I don’t want to be with anyone else but you.”
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“You’re my favorite person in the whole wide world.”
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“We both lean on each other in times of need.”
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“No baby, you’re the best.”
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“I love hearing how much you love me and are committed to this relationship.”
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“I want to return everything you’ve given me tenfold.”
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“I’m so lucky to have you.”
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“You’re my shawty. Always.”
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“I love you, Taylor. So much.”
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“I know I can work on being slower to speak and control my emotions better.”
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“You listen to me all day and my shit.”
I Needed A Shield
From the very beginning, I told Luke what I needed the most. Not flowers. Not grand gestures.
Just this: stand up for me.
Not just when it’s easy.
Not just in private.
But in the rooms where it matters.
And the truth is… he didn’t.
There were moments—small to some, but seismic to me—where he had the chance to speak up, to step in, to show me I wasn’t alone. And when it counted, he went quiet.
Are We Too White?” – The Christmas Question
It was Christmas.
We were at his Nana’s house, surrounded by warmth. I had just given her a soft blanket—a gift chosen with quiet care. I was doing what I always do in unfamiliar spaces: blending in, smiling, offering kindness first.
His mom looked at me and said gently, “Can I ask you something?”
Luke was in the room. Quiet. Alert.
And then she asked:
“Are we too white?”
It wasn’t said with hostility. But it wasn’t said without weight.
I looked at her.
Then I looked at him.
He said nothing.
Not a soft redirect. Not a laugh to ease the moment. Not a check-in later.
Just… silence.
And I was left to navigate it alone. The question. The awkwardness. The meaning behind it.
Because what does that even mean?
Too white… for me? For this moment? For my comfort?
I didn’t answer—not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how.
Not in a room full of people.
Not with everyone watching.
Not when I knew the truth might make me look ungrateful.
I brought it up to Luke in the car afterward. Told him how strange it felt.
He got quiet. Then defensive.
He didn’t get it. Not really. And that was the most painful part.
Because I didn’t need him to explain the question.
I needed him to stand beside me in it.
To say something. Anything.
So I didn’t feel like the only one who noticed how loaded it was.
That was when the loneliness began—not because of her curiosity, but because of his silence.
“If We Say Anything Inappropriate…”
A year prior, we were at True Food in Frisco. Just me and his mom.
She smiled and said, in a lighthearted tone, “If we say anything inappropriate… just let us know.”
And I felt it again. That subtle shift.
The moment when you're no longer a guest—you're the gauge.
The one expected to manage the discomfort. To educate with grace.
To carry both your feelings and theirs.
And I wish white people understood how heavy that is.
It’s not about malice.
It’s about burden.
It’s about how, even in “kind” moments, you’re still being asked to do emotional labor.
You’re not just in the room. You’re monitoring the room.
And when the person you love says nothing about it… you start to wonder if you’re really seen at all.
I told Luke.
He didn’t ask, “How did that make you feel?”
He didn’t say, “That must’ve been hard.”
He said nothing.
Again.
And eventually, I stopped bringing things up.
Because silence teaches you not to try.
We were having dinner with his family at Mi Cocina—nothing heavy, just a meal out, familiar, warm.
I liked his family. I really did. I still do. They were kind. They were welcoming. I could tell they genuinely wanted to connect, and I always appreciated that.
But here’s the context that matters: this dinner didn’t happen early on. The introduction to his family—and most of his inner circle—was delayed by almost a year. Ten to twelve months, to be exact. I don’t know why. I’ve asked myself that question a hundred times.
It was a sharp contrast to how I moved. Luke met every important person in my life within the first month of us dating. Our second date was him attending one of my high school events, shaking hands with classmates, teachers, people who helped raise me. I folded him into my world immediately.
But for nearly a year, I existed on the periphery of his.
So when I finally sat down with his family—when the door finally opened—it felt important. It felt like arrival. That’s what made what happened next feel even heavier. We were mid-meal when his dad turned to me and asked:
“So… do you like cotton?”
I blinked.
There was no malice in his tone. But the question landed with weight.
The Mi Cocina Moment
It didn’t start at Christmas.
Or at True Food Kitchen.
It started almost two years earlier—at Mi Cocina.
Luke and I were having dinner with his parents.
It was the first time I’d met them.
It had taken nearly a year to get to this point—ten to twelve months of waiting to be folded into his world while I had already introduced him to mine. That delay? It mattered.
And so did what happened at the table.
Midway through the meal, his dad turned to me and said:
“So… do you like cotton?”
I blinked.
There was no malice in his voice.
But it wasn’t harmless either.
Because for him, cotton might be a crop.
For me—it’s a graveyard.
It was a reminder that I was still othered.
I come from Fulani royalty and enslaved ancestors.
Cotton isn’t just a fabric in my lineage.
It’s a symbol of forced labor. Of generational trauma. Of everything America built on Black backs and broken bodies. So when someone asks me—a Black woman—if I like cotton, even in jest, it presses something deeper.
I didn’t snap.
I didn’t explain.
I smiled. Because that’s what we’re trained to do.
But what I needed in that moment wasn’t to educate.
It was to feel protected.
And Luke? He said nothing.
No gentle redirect.
No “Hey, that might’ve come off weird.”
No shoulder tap in the car.
No “Are you okay?”
Just silence.
It wasn’t the cotton that hurt.
It was the quiet that followed it.
And to be completely transparent: I love questions.
I value curiosity. I think honest dialogue matters.
I believe people can grow when they ask—and I believed his family genuinely wanted to do better.
Their intentions didn’t feel cruel. They felt... tentative but ignorant. Human. Trying.
But even in warm spaces, I still felt exposed.
Because I can’t be the only Black woman in the room and the PC police.
Because silence from your partner—when you’re the only one in the room—doesn’t feel like neutrality. It feels like abandonment.
Later—much later—his brother brought it up. He acknowledged it privately. He explained why it didn’t sit right with him. And that meant the world to me.
But Luke?
He never asked why it stayed with me.
Never tried to understand why I kept carrying it.
And that’s what kept happening. Over and over again.
His parents said they wanted to learn. That they were open. That they cared. And I believed them. I still do. So I don’t know if Luke was afraid to say something, or didn’t know how, or thought silence would pass as neutrality. Maybe he didn’t want to cause conflict. Maybe he didn’t even notice. I explore some of those theories later on.
But in the moment—when it mattered—he didn’t stand up.
And what people don’t always understand is this: When you’re a Black woman sitting at a table where your history is being poked at—even gently—it’s disorienting. When someone casually asks if I “like cotton,” they may not realize what they’re referencing:
The material they were forced to harvest.
The fields they were chained to.
The legacy I carry—not by choice, but by blood.
He didn’t tell me about the cotton crop until years into the relationship. And when he did, it landed heavy.
I told him: This is hard for me. But also—this doesn’t have to define us. I believe there are ways to honor history while living with the cards God dealt you.
I told him: As long as we’re honest with each other, as long as we try to understand each other, we can get through it.
Because I loved him. And I believed he loved me.
But deep down… I don’t think he believed me. Or maybe he couldn’t believe that love could hold that kind of complexity. I still don’t know. I explore that theory later too.
What I can say is this: I didn’t run. I didn’t shame him. I met him in truth and tenderness.
And for full transparency—yes, I looked into the history.
An investigator gave me findings.
I’m not sharing that report here—not because there’s anything to hide, but because I’ve chosen restraint. What I will say is this: based on what we could find, there is no documented evidence that Luke’s family ever owned slaves during the time they had control of that land. It’s not absolute—nothing about this kind of history ever is. But from everything uncovered, the records are clean.
Still… you can’t research cotton without tracing a blood trail.
The legacy lingers, even when ownership doesn’t.And I carried that weight quietly, trying to make peace with a past I never asked for—but had to face anyway.
It wasn’t the cotton that hurt.
It wasn’t even the questions.
It was the silence.
I wasn’t looking for perfection. I was looking for presence.
For someone to say, “I see what you’re carrying—and I’ll help you hold it.”
But instead, I sat there alone—smiling politely while history pressed its thumb against my ribs.
The Pattern That Emerged
That dinner wasn’t the only time I felt the room shift.
It happened again. And again. Quietly. Subtly. In ways that were easy to dismiss if you weren’t the one experiencing them. But I felt every beat. Every glance. Every moment of awkward silence that said more than words ever could.
And what I realized over time is this: You don’t always need someone to defend you loudly. But you do need someone who will stand beside you when the air gets heavy. You need a partner who sees what you see—and says something.
The Mi Cocina moment was the first time I registered that Luke might not be that partner.
The second? That came with his circle, specifically ATX*.
*Note: Some names have been changed and identities obscured to protect the privacy of individuals mentioned. The intention of sharing these stories is not to accuse or vilify, but to illuminate the emotional experience of being left unprotected in moments that mattered. The focus is not on who said what—but on who stood by and did nothing.
ATX, The Bachelor & The Cheese Platter
There are moments when people show you exactly who they are.
And when they do—believe them.
With ATX (name changed for privacy), there were two moments that shifted my perception—quietly, permanently.
Incident One: The Bachelor & The Softball Game
Luke invited me to a softball game with his friends and their girlfriends. I was the only Black woman there. I wasn’t engaging much—just observing, feeling things out. Then the conversation shifted. Chris Harrison’s name came up.
ATX and another woman began to defend him—“I don’t see a problem,” “I don’t understand why he was fired. I love him.” This was in the wake of the controversy where Harrison defended a contestant who had attended an Antebellum-themed party—an event that glorified the pre-Civil War South.
And then they looked at me. It wasn’t overt hostility. But it was... a pause. A silent test. A moment that said: “We know this might bother you—will you say anything?”
I didn’t. I stayed still.
But inside, I felt deeply isolated.
Because it’s not just about the show. It’s about what that defense represents. I come from a lineage that includes both Fulani royalty and enslaved ancestors. I am not abstractly connected to that history—I am descended from it. And when someone casually dismisses that weight, even in a passing comment, it cuts deeper than they know.
I told Luke after the fact.
He understood and thought it was wrong—he said nothing to his friend.
Incident Two: The Cheese Platter
Later, when I was invited to a group event after nearly a year of being kept at a distance, Luke and I took our time putting together a beautiful charcuterie spread—cheeses, crackers, fruit, all served on a brand-new Lazy Susan we picked up just for the occasion. It was a small thing, but it was thoughtful. We brought it as a gesture of care.
Later in the evening, I walked into the kitchen and overheard ATX mocking it:
“This cheese is disgusting.”
“Who even brought this?”
[Laughter. More commentary.]
I hadn’t said anything. I hadn’t made my presence known. But when I did? Nothing shifted. The comments continued. I didn’t react. I didn’t challenge. I just stood there—observing.
Five minutes and twenty seconds.
That’s how long it lasted, even after it was clear I was in the room.
Luke didn’t say anything to his friend when I told him, again. Not then. Not after.
I liked ATX, originally. Now, I am not sure of the intent behind ATX's actions.
Why She Remains Anonymous
Some may wonder why I’m protecting her identity. The truth is—I’m doing it for someone else.
Her mother-in-law is someone I genuinely respect. At her wedding, this woman embraced me. Made me feel seen. Welcomed. Held space for me in ways that others didn’t. And I don’t want this story to reflect on her—because she deserves none of that.
So for her sake, and for the sake of integrity, ATX stays unnamed. Not because she didn’t do what she did. But because I’m not here to punish—just to tell the truth.
Luke, even now—when you ask me to drop the ATX story—you’re not protecting me. You’re protecting yourself. You’re protecting your friend.
And this is what I mean when I say I feel deeply hurt.
Because you don’t ask what it cost me to sit in that moment alone.
You ask what it might cost you.
That’s the pattern. That’s the heartbreak. That’s why I wrote any of this at all.
But I want you to hear this clearly:
Your silence and your passivity are not going to keep hurting me.
I won’t let them. I don’t want them to.
I’m choosing peace, clarity, and healing — whether or not you choose to meet me there.
And I say that not with bitterness, but with love.
I’m not your enemy, Luke.
I never was.
But I won’t be collateral damage for your fear anymore.
If I remove the ATX section, then I’ll simply say this:
There were two people in Luke’s circle who made racially charged or demeaning comments—one male, one female.
He addressed the man’s behavior.
But when I told him what his female friend said—statements that were deeply offensive, that made me feel humiliated—he stayed silent. Again.
I won’t go into detail here. Because this isn’t about her. It’s about the pattern. About what it feels like to sit in a room where something is said, and the person you love does nothing
His Mind. My Theory. Our Ending.
This is the part where I stop guessing how I felt—and start trying to understand how he might’ve.
Because love—especially love that ends—rarely breaks clean. And closure?
It rarely comes neatly packaged with a bow.
What He Said. What I Heard
I’ve thought about this from every angle.
Not because I’m obsessed with answers, but because when something ends so suddenly—so cleanly, so silently—it leaves a vacuum.
And in that silence, you start replaying the last conversation, the last smile, the last "I love you", trying to understand when it changed.
I don’t believe Luke left because he stopped loving me.
I believe he left because he didn’t know what to do with the weight of being loved that deeply in return.
Love like ours wasn’t light.
It was layered. Intentional. Rooted in history, in cultural difference, in care.
It required presence, reflection, accountability.
It asked him to grow.
And I think that scared him more than he could admit out loud.
So he didn’t say much.
And then, he said goodbye.
He said: “I don’t feel like myself.”
I heard: “I’m scared of who I’m becoming in this relationship, and I don’t know if I can keep up with you.”
He said: “You deserve someone who meets all your standards.”
I heard: “I don’t believe I can be that man, and instead of trying, I’m choosing to exit.”
He said: “You’re out of my league.”
I heard: “I’m intimidated by the weight of your expectations and excellence, and I don’t trust myself to rise to the occasion.”
He said: “I’ve been unhappy for a week.”
I heard: “I’ve been spiraling silently, and now I’m throwing this confusion in your lap without explanation.”
What he said and what I heard weren’t always the same—but both were real.
Because communication isn’t just what’s said. It’s what’s understood.
Luke, In His Own Defense
When we finally spoke, Luke offered a few explanations.
Not all at once.
Not in a straight line.
But over time, in pieces—like someone sifting through their own confusion, trying to justify something they’d already done.
He said:
“I have commitment phobia.”
That surprised me.
It wasn’t a phrase I had ever heard from him before—not in any of our conversations about marriage, the future, or our shared plans.
But in that moment, it landed like a truth he had only just found the courage to say out loud.
Then came the rest:
“I feel like we live different lives.”
“You don’t want a dog.”
“You don’t want to sit outside.”
“I think I was losing myself.”
“I didn’t feel like me anymore.”
“You were always at me. I just needed space.”
“I didn’t think it would hurt you this much.”
“I didn’t know I was feeling this way until recently.”
“I don’t think I’m ready.”
It was an avalanche of contradictions.
None of it was cruel—but all of it was confusing.
Because the Luke I knew—the man I loved and built a life with—was tender, affectionate, and intentional.
This wasn’t the language of someone who had been suffering in silence.
This was the language of someone who hadn’t figured himself out yet—and broke something sacred in the process.
I listened.
I didn’t interrupt.
I didn’t argue.
And to be honest, it sounded like he didn’t have the words—because he didn’t yet understand what he had done.
So here’s my theory:
I think he was overwhelmed.
I think he didn’t know how to love someone who was also a mirror.
I think he panicked when he realized real love requires real decisions—and he wasn’t ready to make them.
Maybe I reminded him of who he wanted to be, but not who he was yet.
Maybe he feared he couldn’t meet me where I stood—and instead of asking for time or help, he chose an exit.
A sudden, quiet, catastrophic exit.
The Things He Wouldn’t Say
Luke wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t mean. But avoidance has a thousand faces.
And one of them is silence.
Eventually, he told me he felt like I was always mad at him. That I seemed frustrated. That he didn’t understand why.
And he wasn’t wrong—I was frustrated.
But not because I didn’t love him.
Because I did.
I was frustrated because I loved him deeply and didn’t feel protected. I felt unseen. He said he loved me, and I believed him. But love without advocacy, without action, without a voice in the hard moments? That’s love without a backbone. And when I couldn’t speak freely—about race, about disappointment, about how his silence left me stranded in rooms—I internalized that pain.
It didn’t fade.
It fermented.
It multiplied.
I told him—so many times—that when he didn’t stand up for me, I felt unloved. Unimportant. Alone.
He didn’t understand that. He took it personally. He felt accused.
But what I was really saying was:
“I need you with me—not just next to me.”
Over time, because I couldn’t name that pain safely, smaller things started to bother me. Things that normally wouldn’t. And because my deeper need went unmet, my system started scanning for every red flag. Luke mistook that accumulation for anger.
But what it really was… was ache.
What looked like criticism was a cry for connection.
I wasn’t trying to control him.
I was trying to reach him.
And maybe now, when he reads this, he’ll finally see that.
I didn’t need a hero.
I needed a witness.
A partner.
Someone who could sit with the complexity and say:
“I may not know everything—but I won’t leave while we figure it out.”
Instead, I got someone who loved me… but only in comfortable spaces. And when it got complicated—he shut down.
I think he was afraid.
Afraid of change.
Afraid of being challenged.
Afraid of disappointing his family.
Afraid of growing past the version of himself he had always known.
And maybe… afraid that if he tried and failed, he would lose everything.
So instead, he gave up before trying at all.
That’s not cruelty.
That’s fear.
But fear, when left unchallenged, becomes abandonment. And that’s what this was. I even told him that.
I said: “You remind me of my father in the abandonment department—it just looks different.”
Not to wound him.
But to explain how deep this went.
I don’t hate Luke. I really don’t.
I understand him.
Maybe more than he ever realized.
But if he ever wonders why I seemed “too intense,” Or why I was “so emotional” at the end—This is why.
I wasn’t being dramatic.
I was being honest.
And I was praying he’d meet me there.
He didn’t.
But now, at least,
He knows where I was standing.
And that I waited.
Yes, he loved me.
But he wasn’t ready to become the man that kind of love required.
And instead of growing with me—
He left.
Note: The reflections and interpretations in this section are based on statements Luke shared with me directly, both during and after our relationship. The purpose of including these quotes is not to assign blame or defame, but to preserve the emotional context of our private conversations as I experienced and recorded them. This account reflects my truth, and is not intended to serve as a definitive or exclusive account of Luke’s internal world.
RECONCILIATION
From lovers to...what?
Are we friends?
Yes.
When Luke ended the relationship, he told me he still wanted to be friends.
He said I was amazing.
And I believed him—because I am.
We’re friendly now. We’ve spoken. I’ve seen him since the breakup. I went to pick up my things from his apartment in Dallas. We talked about this article. We caught up.
I wasn’t cold or performative.
I didn’t ask for anything.
I wasn’t searching for closure.
Because I already found mine.
I even told him, calmly, “Invite me out sometime. I’ll be your wingwoman if you need one. I know everything about you.” That wasn’t flirtation. I said it because he told me he didn’t want to be with me. And I’m taking him at his word. Unless I’m shown something different, I’m not living in what-if’s. I don’t romanticize ambiguity.
I move forward with facts.
Why It’s Not Possible—Or What It Would Take
Could reconciliation ever happen?
I got this question a lot, even when the breakup wasn't public.
I’m not shutting that door. But I’m not waiting by it either.
Luke would have to become someone new.
Not in the core of who he is—he’s already a good man—but in the ways that matter for love to last.
He’d have to know himself.
Love himself.
Work on the parts that avoid hard conversations and seek comfort over courage. He’d have to meet me at the level I live at now—
fully aware,
fully present,
fully aligned.
Because I’m not doing this again in pieces. I’m not carrying the weight for both of us.
If he came back, it wouldn’t be enough to just love me. He would have to stand up for me. Speak for me when I’m not in the room. Fight for the version of us that requires grit, not ease. And most of all?
He’d have to be happy by himself.
That’s what I’ve done. That’s what I’m still doing.
And I wouldn’t accept anything less from someone who says they’re ready for me again.
Me, After it all
I’m good.
Not Instagram-good.
Not “smile through the pain” good.
I’m the kind of good you earn after walking through hell and not coming out hollow.
The kind of strength I carry wasn’t gently developed.
The kind that scorches your sense of self.
The kind that takes your appetite, your sleep, your future, and your relationship all in the same month and says: “Now show me who you are.”
I wasn’t just tested. I was stripped.
Everything I thought made me safe—gone.
Everything I thought would catch me—disappeared.
And somehow, I stayed standing.
Not untouched.
Not unshaken.
But undefeated.
What I have now is more than mental discipline. It’s a sacred kind of survival. It’s the stamina of a woman who was left mid-collapse and still chose grace. It’s the spiritual sharpness of someone who’s been through the kind of pain that makes you bargain with God at 2 a.m.—and still wakes up the next morning to fight for her future.
My resilience is not normal.
It is the product of divine pressure.
The kind that either breaks you down or builds you into something other people don’t even recognize anymore. So if you’re wondering how I made it through this?
It’s not because I was spared.
It’s because I surrendered.
I let it burn.
I let it undo me.
And then I let God remake me in the ashes. This isn’t strength that can be imitated. This is strength that’s been earned—
in private,
in pain,
in silence.
I’m not just here. I’m standing on the same ground that once tried to swallow me. And I do so with elegance—not anger.
Because that is who I’ve chosen to become.