Chapter 3: The Bootlicker’s Awakening

We were together for over a year. I brought up breaking up with you three times, for various reasons. I counted the days, the reasons, the patterns. I wanted to understand why I kept coming back, why I couldn’t quit you.

The first time was on our 100-day anniversary. I circled the date in my planner, bought a little gift, imagined a sweet celebration. I thought milestones mattered to you, like they did to me.

When you asked me to be your girlfriend, I was happy, but held back and calmly asked, "Are you sure? I hope you’re not just dating me to spite Autumn." I tried to sound casual, but my voice trembled. I needed to know I was more than a rebound.

You were silent for a long time, then told me you and Autumn weren’t right for each other. Her lack of boundaries with other guys and your constant accommodating wore you out. You didn’t want to keep fighting, wanted to let go and have a healthy relationship. You asked if I’d walk out with you. You made it sound so mature, so final. I wanted to believe you were ready for something real.

I liked you, but I wasn’t cruel. I didn’t want to take advantage of your vulnerability. I hesitated, wanting to make sure you were choosing me for me, not just to fill the void.

But you promised it wasn’t a whim, you’d take our relationship seriously. I admired your honesty, so I agreed. You looked me in the eye, said, "I want to try." I believed you.

Your promise meant nothing. After we got together, I didn’t feel loved, not even respected. It was like dating a shadow. You were there, but never really present. I waited for affection, but it never came.

I had no dating experience, so I often followed lifestyle accounts and relationship bloggers. Everyone seems unsure if their boyfriend really loves them. The two things that always come up: whether he’s willing to make you public on Instagram and use couple profile pics, and whether he’s willing to spend money on you. Spending money doesn’t prove love, but not spending money definitely means he doesn’t care.

I’d scroll through endless advice threads, wondering if I was asking too much. "Does he post you?" "Does he buy you gifts?" I kept score, hoping it would add up to love.

The first point—forget it. When we first got together, I eagerly picked out couple profile pics and covers to send you, hoping you’d use them with me. You refused, saying you didn’t like them. Your avatar was a British Shorthair cat, leaping to catch a toy. You kept that avatar until Autumn came back. Later, when I added her on Facebook, I found out the cat was hers.

It felt like a punch to the gut. All that time, you were carrying her with you, even in your profile picture. I felt so foolish.

See, you were fake from the start, deceiving me all along. I replayed every conversation, wondering how I missed the signs. I wanted to believe you were honest, but the evidence was clear.

As for the second point—though it’s tacky, you really never spent money on me. I told myself it didn’t matter, but every time you forgot a holiday, it stung. I watched other couples exchange gifts, and I felt invisible.

Maybe it was bad timing. We got together in December, and in just two months faced Christmas Eve, Christmas, my birthday, New Year’s Eve, Valentine’s Day, all sorts of holidays... But you never gave me a single gift for any of them.

I’d see posts on Instagram—girls showing off their gifts, bouquets, little Venmo transfers. I’d scroll past, pretending not to care.

Ah, no—on my birthday we went out after class. You spent a dollar on a claw machine and got me a green, silly-looking turtle. Its poor quality made it look dopey, just like me standing there. You handed it to me, whistled under the lights, looking handsome, and said, "Lucky day, here’s your birthday present. This isn’t just any turtle, it’s a lucky turtle."

I laughed, hugging that little turtle, pretending it was enough. I told myself you were quirky, not thoughtless. Our birthdays are less than a month apart. On your birthday, I’d already bought you a bottle of cologne worth over a hundred bucks, your favorite sneakers, and an expensive game console, spending all my scholarship money on you.

I wrapped the gifts myself, spent hours picking out the right card, hoping you’d notice how much I cared. I was disappointed, but I still smiled and accepted the turtle, looking up sweetly and saying thank you, I liked the present.

I put it on my desk, next to my textbooks, trying to see it as a sign of luck, not neglect. Later, on the way back, I hugged that ugly turtle and consoled myself, telling myself you didn’t put effort into my present because we’d just started dating. For new couples, maybe you shouldn’t spend too much time and money on presents... right?

I rationalized everything, telling myself it was too soon for grand gestures. I clung to hope. What if we broke up soon? I thought, if we last longer, you won’t be like this.

I kept believing that time would change you, that patience would pay off. Then came New Year’s Eve. I waited all day until after midnight, but didn’t get even a small Venmo transfer. Sorry, I don’t want to seem money-minded. I grew up wealthy and don’t lack money. I don’t want to compare you to other boyfriends, but when I scrolled Instagram, girls with boyfriends posted about their happiness and showed off their transfers—$6.60, $8.80, $52.00, $131.40 and more.

It wasn’t about the money—it was about being remembered, being wanted. I watched the numbers tick by, feeling smaller each time. I didn’t care about the amount or the price of gifts. I just wanted you to care about me.

I wanted to feel like I mattered, even in the smallest way. I didn’t want you to think I was greedy for gifts. I bit my tongue, telling myself not to be "that girl"—the one who nags about presents.

But you didn’t, and I didn’t say anything. I swallowed my disappointment, smiled through the ache, kept quiet.

What’s more, there’s comparison. When you dated Autumn, you weren’t like this. You remembered gifts, birthdays, anniversaries, sent her flowers every week, linked your bank cards, and prepared grand surprises for every holiday.

I’d hear stories from mutual friends—how you’d show up with roses, take her to fancy dinners, plan elaborate dates. I wondered what made me different. It’s not that you couldn’t, or didn’t know how. You just didn’t love me, didn’t care, didn’t want to put in effort, so I wasn’t worthy.

I tried to tell myself it was timing, circumstance, anything but the truth. But deep down, I knew. But I kept comforting myself that we’d just started—take it slow.

I believed in second chances, slow burns, anything to keep hope alive. The first breakup was triggered by our 100-day anniversary. 100 days, over three months—I thought our relationship was stable, and if managed well, could last. I prepared a gift and told you a week in advance about the plans. You agreed.

I picked out the perfect movie, bought tickets, planned everything. I wanted it to be special. I bought two movie tickets—Marvel, your favorite. But you forgot the date. When I reached you, you were in the dorm playing video games. When I stood before you, you casually glanced at your phone and said, "Phone died."

You barely looked up, controller in hand, screen glowing. I waited outside the theater, clutching the tickets, trying not to cry. I waited over an hour for you outside the theater, and you didn’t even apologize.

I watched couples stream by, laughing, holding hands. I stood alone, feeling foolish. I turned and left, impulsively breaking up with you over text.

My fingers shook as I typed, the words blunt and final. I wanted to make you feel something, anything. You always thought I broke up because you missed the movie, but that was just the trigger. My disappointment in you built up bit by bit, pressing on my chest—things I couldn’t say.

I kept a list in my head—every forgotten promise, every missed moment. It was never just about the movie. You didn’t show sincerity in starting over.

Even when you said sorry, it felt hollow, like you were just going through the motions. You really weren’t good to me. Every time I broke up with you, I was determined to let go, for myself and for you. Love was tears, bottles of beer, nightly melatonin, turning my phone screen on and off, endless doubts and self-hypnosis.

I’d cry into my pillow, pop a sleeping pill, stare at the ceiling until morning. I’d tell myself it was over, but the ache never left. I regretted it, but people are strange. In the days after breaking up, my mind was full of your coldness and hurt, but after a few days, besides the pain, I’d remember the little bits of kindness you gave me.

I’d replay the good times, the rare smiles, the warmth of your jacket on a cold night. I wanted to believe those moments meant something. In the end, I’d forget all the hurt, only remember the good, so I’d go back to you again and again.

I was addicted to hope, to the idea that love could fix everything. I kept coming back, even when I knew better. Actually, the first breakup was just to see if you’d try to win me back, but you didn’t, so I had to forgive you myself. This wasn’t a matter of principle. I told you, if you want my forgiveness, send me flowers.

I sent the text, half-joking, half-serious. I waited for a response, hoping you’d care enough to try. You didn’t reply, but the next day the florist sent a beautiful bouquet. I Googled it and found out it was White O'Hara roses—pure white petals with a hint of champagne pink, very pretty.

I held the bouquet, took a selfie, posted it to my story. For a moment, I felt special. I took a picture with the flowers and asked you if you could send me a bouquet on every holiday and anniversary. This seemed to be the first and only request I made of you. You agreed.

You said, "Sure," like it was nothing. I clung to that promise, hoping it would mean more. But you didn’t keep your word. You’re good at forgetting promises. On Valentine’s Day you still didn’t give me a gift or Venmo transfer, still forgot our anniversary. The only difference was I learned to comfort myself. Mariah also consoled me, saying not every bootlicker gets promoted—don’t treat your relationship as love, just pretend you’re a client at a club. Have you ever seen a dancer give money to a client?

Mariah always had a sharp tongue. Her jokes stung, but they made me laugh, reminded me not to take it all so seriously. It was harsh, but it made me laugh. Maybe she had a point, so I thought, take it slow, don’t rush.

I tried to see the humor in my situation, to give myself grace. See, you didn’t need to do anything. I already hired the best lawyer in my heart to defend you every time you hurt me, declaring you innocent.

I’d argue with myself, building cases for your behavior, always giving you the benefit of the doubt. So my outcome was my own fault. I didn’t cut losses in time, had unrealistic fantasies, I eat the bitter fruit I sowed, I’m not aggrieved.

I accepted the blame, stopped pretending I was a victim. I knew I stayed too long. I feel I’m getting a little better recently, maybe because I met Mariah again. Her softer attitude made me hope our friendship could be restored, and I secretly hoped for a new start.

I started texting her again, sending memes, hoping she’d reply. When she did, I felt like I was healing, piece by piece. You know, everything will get better.

I started to believe it, even on the rough days. Hope came back, slow and steady.