If Not Him, Then Who?

Hey there, my friend (not sure I should be calling you that, but okay).

Let’s just pretend I asked how you are doing. But let’s be honest, we’re here, you being you, lost in your own world, not sparing a thought for what I’m up to. I guess I should be used to that by now. Why shouldn’t I? I chose this. I chose you. If it isn’t you, who else is it going to be? You’re just another face—a reflection of every cold heart I seem to attract. Just another story waiting to leave me too weak to move. But who cares, right? I chose you, knowing exactly what you have to offer, knowing exactly what to expect.

They say if there’s fire right in front of you, you won’t jump into it. You’ll take precautions, find ways to avoid getting burned. But me? I jump—straight into the flames. And yet, despite everything, I never stop jumping. Because this is who I am when it comes to people I like. I like madness, chaos, the danger—everything I know will break me in the end. And maybe, just maybe, I’m addicted to it.

So, when I say, “If not him, then who?” what I mean is this: the ‘him’ changes, but the story? The story remains the same. It’s always the same fire, the same burns, the same end. But for some reason, I keep rewriting the same chapters, hoping the ending will surprise me one day.

You know what’s funny? It’s not even about you. It’s about me. It’s about the choices I make and the storms I willingly walk into. I could choose calmness, a love that feels safe, steady. But that’s not what I crave. I crave the chaos, the intensity, the kind of love that burns bright and fierce—even if it leaves me in ashes. Maybe I’m drawn to fixing what’s broken. Or maybe I’m trying to prove to myself that I can survive the fire, no matter how many times it consumes me.

Why do I keep repeating the same patterns? Why do I keep choosing people who are emotionally unavailable, who can’t or won’t love me the way I need to be loved? Maybe it’s because I’m scared of what happens if someone actually does love me. What if they see all the cracks, all the flaws, all the messy, unfiltered parts of me? What if they decide I’m not worth it? It’s easier to choose people who will never even get close enough to see the real me. Easier to tell myself the problem isn’t me—it’s them.

But deep down, I know the truth. The problem isn’t them. It’s me. It’s the way I keep throwing myself into these one-sided relationships, hoping this time will be different. It’s the way I cling to the idea of love, even when it’s clearly not mutual. It’s the way I convince myself that I’m strong enough to handle the pain, that I don’t need anything more than the scraps of affection they’re willing to give me. But I do need more. I deserve more. And yet, I’m terrified of asking for it. Terrified of being told I’m too much, that my needs are too big, too overwhelming.

So I settle. I settle for the almosts, the maybes, the not-quites. I settle for being the one who gives and gives, even when there’s nothing left to give. And when it all falls apart—as it always does—I tell myself it’s because I’m not enough. But the truth is, it’s not about being enough. It’s about choosing people who are willing to meet me halfway, who see my worth without me having to prove it.

It’s a lesson I’m still learning. A lesson I’ve had to learn the hard way, through heartbreak and disappointment. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe I had to go through all of this to realize I don’t have to settle. That I can walk away from the fire, no matter how tempting it looks, no matter how much it calls to me.

So when I say, “If not him, then who?” what I really mean is this: If not him, then me. If not him, then someone who sees my worth without me having to prove it. If not him, then someone who doesn’t just watch me burn, but pulls me out of the fire and helps me heal.

And until I find that someone, I’ll keep working on being that someone for myself. Because at the end of the day, the love I’ve been searching for has been inside me all along. I just needed to stop looking for it in other people long enough to see it.

Adios, my friend.

Yours, maybe.