He's Perfect for Me... But I Can't Have Him
I hope you guys are ready for a long story! I'm a writer, so I apologize for the verbosity. If you read it, I really appreciate it.
I planned a trip to Italy this winter partly to visit a former roommate, who is studying for her masters in Rome. As I was fine-tuning my Italian plans, she suggested I Couchsurf in the other cities. She said that many of her friends used the site and it's a great way to meet nice, local people who will show you their cities. She actually met her current boyfriend that way, because she traveled Italy for a month last year. I connected with one Couchsurfer host in Milan who was very friendly. Since this was his first time hosting, we Skyped, and both felt an instant click. I knew he was attractive, but I also knew that I get along with so many people. All I knew was that I felt good about staying with him. He began checking in with me often on Facebook and our connection grew over those next two weeks. When I had the opportunity to cancel my Milan flight and go straight to Rome, I resisted. Something in my gut told me I had to meet this guy in Milan, so I went.
D picked me up at the train station in late January. He was one of the most hospitable people I've ever met. And I've never had someone treat me with such respect and give me so much personal space. He was the most respecting, least sleazy man I'd ever met. Though he was intensely focused on his work, he took his first vacation days in a year, devoting his full attention to me and my happiness in his city. After three days together, 24/7, we found ourselves connecting on music tastes, sense of humor, sharing coffee, cooking together, dining out, site-seeing, having aperitivo, visiting his office, drinking wine, staying up till the wee hours watching Woody Allen movies, running together through the snow to catch a train, bonding over our equally sensitive and introspective insights on the world, and constantly laughing our asses off. At the end of the third day, despite the strangeness of the situation, we really could not deny how much we liked each other. We held hands that night, and finally kissed in the morning, just before I had to go to the airport. It was intense and electric, but I believed I'd never see him again.
I went to Rome and we kept texting like typical lovers, although I took a lot of personal space to site-see (sans a reliable connection) and D apparently spent a lot of time wrestling with his new feelings for me. He told he ultimately decided he couldn't deny his heart, and told me he had to see me again. We made plans to meet in Florence. He called me on the phone and we talked like high schoolers. It was the warmest, most compatible connection I've ever had with a man. A week later, when I saw him in Florence, we had what was hands down the most wonderful 24 hours of my life. We laughed and played like children in the streets and cafes of Florence. We spent the night in a B&B, loving on each other and creating an incredibly intimate bond. We had breakfast while looking at each other with intense adoration and divine nervousness about what all of this meant. When he left me at the bus stop, we were clinging to each other with fire in our eyes. As he walked to his train, we kept them locked on each other.
Then I went to Paris. But he and I continued to talk constantly. Cheerful, exhilarating, effusive: it felt like the best connection of my life. He excitedly suggested plans for me to travel with him that summer. D said we'd go to London, Germany, the Adriatic Sea. He sent me an itinerary for traveling with me in the U.S. We were both ecstatic. When I came back to Milan five days later, we spent two more beautiful days together, losing complete track of time and the hours, caught up in each others' eyes and lips and faces and limbs and hair in the intoxicating way the early seedlings of love overtake you like an ocean. We took a bath together. We held hands and kissed in the streets. We ate gelato. He held me adoringly. We stopped short to ogle the same store windows. We admired public art. He kissed my forehead on the metro. We stood and stared at each other for a 15-minute train ride, not speaking, just locking eyes intensely, as tears streamed down my face. Twice at home, he crawled to me on his knees in submission, kissing me like some great lover in a film saying, "no woman ever has this effect on me." This was a man who, two weeks before had been distant and consumed by work, and now seemed free as a bird and consumed by his feelings for me. He told me he'd never felt so accepted for who he was by a woman in his life, that he'd never felt more himself or better in a woman's company. I felt the same way for him. If someone had told me I could never return home, and had to stay with him forever, I would have agreed.
He lodged with me in my airport hotel, and we both cried many cries. He told me if I lived in Italy, we would be in a relationship. He gave me a T-shirt with his cologne. I sprayed my perfume on his pillow. We clung to each other in the hotel lobby with the dark cold morning outside the door, and we kissed each other as many times as we could, as if no one was around. We looked anxiously at the shuttle bus driver, looking for cues that I had to leave, and stole as many kisses as possible as we raced against time. D looked me in the eyes as I cried, telling me, "I want you to know that everything you are feeling; I am feeling the same thing."
Leaving was hard, but not as hard as I thought. We had a few of those desperate, "come back" texts to each other, but more than anything, I felt absolute elation. After 29 years, I had finally found a man who proved to me what I should feel in a relationship. The mutual respect, the admiration, the compatibility, the peacefulness, the passion, the attraction, the transcendent intimacy, the shared humor, the common interests. I flew back to America happy that I had found him, and sure that he was better for me than anyone I'd known before.
For two weeks, we continued to talk about when we'd see each other next. We Skyped only once, but cemented the overwhelming nature of our connection and attraction to each other. We spoke of how much we missed each other. The loneliness. The scents that lingered. As time marched on, we shared the most personal stories, tales from the darkest corners of our past. He responded with great maturity and caring, impressing me beyond my wildest dreams. He told me things that he'd never told anyone in his life. D said he trusted me implicitly, and that I understood his heart more than anyone on this earth. That I knew him better than his childhood friends. On a truly busy night, at 1 a.m. for him, he still made time to speak with me on the phone for an hour about a problem I had with a friend. He was amazing. Another Friday night, he came home from a concert and talked with me until 6 a.m. All in all, we've exchanged 20,000 Facebook messages.
But after about 3.5 weeks, I watched him slowly lose faith. I listened to talk about seeing each other as a nebulous possibility, rather than a guarantee. Then I watched him disappear into work, a startup company that he had launched six months before, which was suddenly—and almost simultaneously with my departure—skyrocketing to success. The demands of his work and his professional passions are consuming him. He's on a high now, finally living a purpose he'd been dreaming about for 31 years. He is currently the most confident of his life, especially after our time together, because he never felt more accepted for who he was. The confirmation of my acceptance and adoration for him certainly helped his self esteem, so there's a part of me that wishes I could take it back. Now he's in this tunnel vision phase, completely focused on this business he cannot let go. The ball he cannot drop. I'm afraid I feel like an impossible situation, and the more I am out of sight, out of mind, and not in his life in Milan, the more he can let me go. The more he can just dive into dalliances with other women who have geography on their side. He suggested we be friends to make it easier, and I've had to stop clinging to him. I've watched the conversations change, as he has slowly faded away.
It's now been five weeks since I returned home, and though I have resumed my own active, social life full of freelance work, I sit here depressed and empty, afraid I am forgettable, and that I was not as great an impact on his life as he was on mine. He changed my whole view about men and the possibilities for love that could exist in this life. I have to let him go, and the reasons for that feel so cruel and unusual, since if I was in Italy, this could have progressed normally.
I guess the reason I'm posting this here is to ask, is this the way most long-distance relationships go? Do people only get into long-distance relationships because the connection is so incredibly strong, but STILL lose their lovers due to the difficulty? How hard is it for a connection like this to survive, and does it require two parties without huge passions in their respective lives? Does it normally fade this quickly? Is it more indicative of a false connection, or just a lack of bravery? I wonder if he wasn't so consumed with work and funneling money into a new business, if he'd make an effort to grow this. Is it possible he'll ever come back around? Does it take a very special person to be willing to date long distance, and is he not the type? Is there something desperate about me because I am willing? I do want love, ideally in my same town, but I've never met anyone like D, and I'm not sure I ever will. It's going to take a long time to pick up the pieces from this, and when I'm 89, I'm afraid I'll still be dreaming about that beautiful man I knew in Italy.
I planned a trip to Italy this winter partly to visit a former roommate, who is studying for her masters in Rome. As I was fine-tuning my Italian plans, she suggested I Couchsurf in the other cities. She said that many of her friends used the site and it's a great way to meet nice, local people who will show you their cities. She actually met her current boyfriend that way, because she traveled Italy for a month last year. I connected with one Couchsurfer host in Milan who was very friendly. Since this was his first time hosting, we Skyped, and both felt an instant click. I knew he was attractive, but I also knew that I get along with so many people. All I knew was that I felt good about staying with him. He began checking in with me often on Facebook and our connection grew over those next two weeks. When I had the opportunity to cancel my Milan flight and go straight to Rome, I resisted. Something in my gut told me I had to meet this guy in Milan, so I went.
D picked me up at the train station in late January. He was one of the most hospitable people I've ever met. And I've never had someone treat me with such respect and give me so much personal space. He was the most respecting, least sleazy man I'd ever met. Though he was intensely focused on his work, he took his first vacation days in a year, devoting his full attention to me and my happiness in his city. After three days together, 24/7, we found ourselves connecting on music tastes, sense of humor, sharing coffee, cooking together, dining out, site-seeing, having aperitivo, visiting his office, drinking wine, staying up till the wee hours watching Woody Allen movies, running together through the snow to catch a train, bonding over our equally sensitive and introspective insights on the world, and constantly laughing our asses off. At the end of the third day, despite the strangeness of the situation, we really could not deny how much we liked each other. We held hands that night, and finally kissed in the morning, just before I had to go to the airport. It was intense and electric, but I believed I'd never see him again.
I went to Rome and we kept texting like typical lovers, although I took a lot of personal space to site-see (sans a reliable connection) and D apparently spent a lot of time wrestling with his new feelings for me. He told he ultimately decided he couldn't deny his heart, and told me he had to see me again. We made plans to meet in Florence. He called me on the phone and we talked like high schoolers. It was the warmest, most compatible connection I've ever had with a man. A week later, when I saw him in Florence, we had what was hands down the most wonderful 24 hours of my life. We laughed and played like children in the streets and cafes of Florence. We spent the night in a B&B, loving on each other and creating an incredibly intimate bond. We had breakfast while looking at each other with intense adoration and divine nervousness about what all of this meant. When he left me at the bus stop, we were clinging to each other with fire in our eyes. As he walked to his train, we kept them locked on each other.
Then I went to Paris. But he and I continued to talk constantly. Cheerful, exhilarating, effusive: it felt like the best connection of my life. He excitedly suggested plans for me to travel with him that summer. D said we'd go to London, Germany, the Adriatic Sea. He sent me an itinerary for traveling with me in the U.S. We were both ecstatic. When I came back to Milan five days later, we spent two more beautiful days together, losing complete track of time and the hours, caught up in each others' eyes and lips and faces and limbs and hair in the intoxicating way the early seedlings of love overtake you like an ocean. We took a bath together. We held hands and kissed in the streets. We ate gelato. He held me adoringly. We stopped short to ogle the same store windows. We admired public art. He kissed my forehead on the metro. We stood and stared at each other for a 15-minute train ride, not speaking, just locking eyes intensely, as tears streamed down my face. Twice at home, he crawled to me on his knees in submission, kissing me like some great lover in a film saying, "no woman ever has this effect on me." This was a man who, two weeks before had been distant and consumed by work, and now seemed free as a bird and consumed by his feelings for me. He told me he'd never felt so accepted for who he was by a woman in his life, that he'd never felt more himself or better in a woman's company. I felt the same way for him. If someone had told me I could never return home, and had to stay with him forever, I would have agreed.
He lodged with me in my airport hotel, and we both cried many cries. He told me if I lived in Italy, we would be in a relationship. He gave me a T-shirt with his cologne. I sprayed my perfume on his pillow. We clung to each other in the hotel lobby with the dark cold morning outside the door, and we kissed each other as many times as we could, as if no one was around. We looked anxiously at the shuttle bus driver, looking for cues that I had to leave, and stole as many kisses as possible as we raced against time. D looked me in the eyes as I cried, telling me, "I want you to know that everything you are feeling; I am feeling the same thing."
Leaving was hard, but not as hard as I thought. We had a few of those desperate, "come back" texts to each other, but more than anything, I felt absolute elation. After 29 years, I had finally found a man who proved to me what I should feel in a relationship. The mutual respect, the admiration, the compatibility, the peacefulness, the passion, the attraction, the transcendent intimacy, the shared humor, the common interests. I flew back to America happy that I had found him, and sure that he was better for me than anyone I'd known before.
For two weeks, we continued to talk about when we'd see each other next. We Skyped only once, but cemented the overwhelming nature of our connection and attraction to each other. We spoke of how much we missed each other. The loneliness. The scents that lingered. As time marched on, we shared the most personal stories, tales from the darkest corners of our past. He responded with great maturity and caring, impressing me beyond my wildest dreams. He told me things that he'd never told anyone in his life. D said he trusted me implicitly, and that I understood his heart more than anyone on this earth. That I knew him better than his childhood friends. On a truly busy night, at 1 a.m. for him, he still made time to speak with me on the phone for an hour about a problem I had with a friend. He was amazing. Another Friday night, he came home from a concert and talked with me until 6 a.m. All in all, we've exchanged 20,000 Facebook messages.
But after about 3.5 weeks, I watched him slowly lose faith. I listened to talk about seeing each other as a nebulous possibility, rather than a guarantee. Then I watched him disappear into work, a startup company that he had launched six months before, which was suddenly—and almost simultaneously with my departure—skyrocketing to success. The demands of his work and his professional passions are consuming him. He's on a high now, finally living a purpose he'd been dreaming about for 31 years. He is currently the most confident of his life, especially after our time together, because he never felt more accepted for who he was. The confirmation of my acceptance and adoration for him certainly helped his self esteem, so there's a part of me that wishes I could take it back. Now he's in this tunnel vision phase, completely focused on this business he cannot let go. The ball he cannot drop. I'm afraid I feel like an impossible situation, and the more I am out of sight, out of mind, and not in his life in Milan, the more he can let me go. The more he can just dive into dalliances with other women who have geography on their side. He suggested we be friends to make it easier, and I've had to stop clinging to him. I've watched the conversations change, as he has slowly faded away.
It's now been five weeks since I returned home, and though I have resumed my own active, social life full of freelance work, I sit here depressed and empty, afraid I am forgettable, and that I was not as great an impact on his life as he was on mine. He changed my whole view about men and the possibilities for love that could exist in this life. I have to let him go, and the reasons for that feel so cruel and unusual, since if I was in Italy, this could have progressed normally.
I guess the reason I'm posting this here is to ask, is this the way most long-distance relationships go? Do people only get into long-distance relationships because the connection is so incredibly strong, but STILL lose their lovers due to the difficulty? How hard is it for a connection like this to survive, and does it require two parties without huge passions in their respective lives? Does it normally fade this quickly? Is it more indicative of a false connection, or just a lack of bravery? I wonder if he wasn't so consumed with work and funneling money into a new business, if he'd make an effort to grow this. Is it possible he'll ever come back around? Does it take a very special person to be willing to date long distance, and is he not the type? Is there something desperate about me because I am willing? I do want love, ideally in my same town, but I've never met anyone like D, and I'm not sure I ever will. It's going to take a long time to pick up the pieces from this, and when I'm 89, I'm afraid I'll still be dreaming about that beautiful man I knew in Italy.
; I'm just going to give him space (we are not talking as much now) to figure out what he needs to. I know that he said he wants to be there for me and know about my life, so that's all we'll have for the foreseeable future. I'm just working on getting to a place where it doesn't make me want to cry when I think about the loss of our intimacy and a future I was optimistically envisioning. Every day is a challenge to live more in the present, so I don't sabotage myself by fixating too much on the future. It works for career ambitions, but not for romantic ones. 
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