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Love, Champagne, and a Lesson in Letting Go

Love, Champagne, and a Lesson in Letting Go

There’s a difference between being in love and being attached to the idea of someone.

For a while, I didn’t see the difference. I mistook habit for effort, history for depth, and the bare minimum for something worth staying for.

I told myself he was trying. After all, he made it to my city, didn’t he? But arrival is not the same as showing up. There’s a fine line between someone choosing you and someone simply allowing themselves to be chosen.

The truth is, some people don’t build relationships—they just exist in them. And for too long, I let myself believe that movement was progress. That a glass half full was enough to quench my thirst. That something was better than nothing.

I have never been in the business of proving my worth. Not to people, not to places, not to men who mistake availability for value.

I’ve always understood that real things don’t audition. And yet, somehow, I entertained the idea that his presence meant something. That his inconsistency was mystery rather than indecision. That my patience would be met with certainty.

But time doesn’t turn the wrong thing into the right one. It only reveals what was never meant to stay.

Some Loves Are Designed to Expire

Love isn’t measured by time. Some stories last decades, some only a season. Some feel over before they even begin.

I’ve never been one to hold on to things past their prime—worn-out clothes, dying flowers, a drink that’s lost its chill. And yet, for a while, I mistook comfort for connection, momentum for meaning.

It wasn’t the grand, obvious disappointments that made me step back. It was the subtleties.

• The way I was offering something whole while he was only ever giving in fractions.

• The way his presence felt more like a guest appearance than a starring role.

• The way I realized I had been curating the experience, while he was merely attending it.

I used to think effort was something to be earned, that if I made things easy, they’d naturally fall into place. But ease isn’t the absence of effort—it’s the presence of certainty.

At some point, I stopped asking myself if he would stay. The better question was: Did I even want him to?

A Champagne Flute

It was my birthday. My girlfriend arrived at my place, arms full of makeup, last-minute outfit options, and a bottle of champagne. The kind of pre-night-out ritual that feels like a love language.

We got ready together, the room buzzing with music, perfume, and the electric kind of excitement that only comes from a night with no expectations. She popped the bottle, poured two glasses, and just like that—my birthday had begun.

And yet, somehow, by the end of the night, he had managed to get a glass from that same bottle. Worse? I was the one who offered it to him.

Because that’s what I did, wasn’t it? Gave freely, even when it wasn’t deserved. Gave to someone who never once thought to offer something back. Gave, even when I was only ever receiving in halves.

I’m generous in the way I love. It’s always been one of my favourite things about myself. But generosity without discernment isn’t kindness—it’s waste.

Some people never take, they only receive. They insert themselves into what was never theirs, collecting moments, affection, and even champagne flutes without a second thought.

I realized later, that was exactly what I had been to him—a glass to sip from, a moment to pass through, an experience to have.

And the thing about people like that? They never stay to clean up after.

They slip into your life, take what’s easy, and disappear before the glass is even empty.

The Moment I Let Go

The truth didn’t arrive in a dramatic scene. There was no moment where I stormed off, no speech, no breaking point. Just a quiet, almost imperceptible shift.

I watched him move through my world as if he was doing me a favour by being in it. I watched as he spoke about the “sacrifice” of showing up as if the simple act of seeing me was effort enough. I listened as he framed my presence in his life as something to manage rather than something to cherish.

And just like that, I wasn’t interested anymore.

Some loves don’t end in flames. Some just fade, like perfume on skin—lingering for a moment before completely disappearing.

Letting go didn’t feel like heartbreak. It felt like slipping into a dress that used to be my favourite, only to realize it doesn’t fit anymore.

And worse? I had no desire to tailor it.

The Lesson

I used to think that letting go was the hard part. But the truth? The hard part is realizing you held on for too long.

The kind of love I was clinging to? It was never mine to keep. It was something I was keeping warm for someone who had already decided he wouldn’t stay.

And love—real love, good love, the kind that stays—never requires you to convince someone of your worth.

The right one? He never makes you wonder.
The wrong one? He makes you split the bill on your birthday.

Final Sip of Champagne

Some goodbyes feel like endings. Others feel like an upgrade.

And this one? This one tasted like champagne.