When we met, I made the rules clear.
No love. No pretending. No late-night “I miss you” texts.
I’d been through too much, seen too many men confuse guilt with affection.
He said he respected that — that he didn’t believe in love either.
That made me trust him more than I should have.
He wasn’t my type. Too calm, too gentle, too… real.
But he listened when I talked. Not the kind of listening that waits to respond — the kind that actually hears.
It made me nervous. It made me curious.
He never said “I’ll take care of you.”
He said, “You’ve been taking care of yourself for too long.”
And I think that’s where it started — the slow unravelling of every wall I’d built.
One evening, he came over while my son was in the living room, crying over a plastic car that wouldn’t move anymore.
I panicked for a second — I never mixed that part of my life.
But he just knelt beside my kid, asked softly, “Can I take a look?”
Ten minutes later, the car was running again.
My son’s face lit up like the whole world had been fixed with it.
He looked at me and said, “Mom, he’s cool.”
And something in my chest cracked open, quiet and terrifying.
After my son went to bed, I asked him, “Why’d you do that?”
He smiled — not smug, not trying — just gentle.
“Because I wanted to fix something for you that didn’t need to break again.”
I laughed. Then I cried.
Because I didn’t know if it was love, but it was the closest thing I’d felt to it in years.
For a few weeks, everything felt soft.
He’d text me good morning, send dumb memes, talk about weekend plans like normal people do.
It scared me more than any red flag ever could.
Then one night, he told me he might move for work — “just a few states away.”
I nodded like it didn’t matter, but the silence after that said everything.
We both knew we’d built something that didn’t fit the contract.
We met one last time. No tears, no promises.
He kissed my forehead and said, “You’ll be okay. You’ve always been okay.”
And I wanted to tell him that for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be.
Now, months later, the toy car still works.
Sometimes, I find it under the couch, wheels spinning faintly, battery dying but still trying.
It reminds me of that night — of how a man fixed a small thing in my house but broke something open in me.
End line:
I still don’t believe in love. But I believe in moments that make you wish you could.
Top Comments
[softburntruth]
“I still don’t believe in love. But I believe in moments that make you wish you could.” That’s one of those sentences that stays with you.
[exsugarbabyhere]
God, I felt this. It’s never the grand gestures that get you — it’s the small, ordinary kindness that feels like safety.
[quietchaos88]
He didn’t fix the toy. He reminded you what gentleness looks like. That’s why it hurts more.
[lonelySDthrowaway]
As a man who’s been in his position… yeah, sometimes we do small things hoping they’ll say what we can’t.
[realisticromantic]
The metaphor of the toy car? Perfect. Because that’s what these relationships are — temporary repairs that make you believe things can run again.
[skepticalandsoft]
You didn’t fall for him. You fell for the way he made your world feel lighter, even for a minute. That’s the part we all chase.
[bittersweetrebel]
Sometimes love doesn’t show up to stay. It just stops by to remind you what it looks like.
