Once, I was walking down the street with a friend. We were talking about life when, all of a sudden, he told me he was seeing a girl.
He showed me a picture of her on Instagram. She was gorgeous.
They had met at a nightclub. There was a spark between them, and they spent the night together. It happened once. Then he started pursuing her, looking for explanations, insisting. They ended up seeing each other again.
But she turned him down.
He was disappointed. He said she was cool, that they talked about crazy things, that they really clicked. He couldn't understand why she had simply stopped replying. She hadn't blocked him on WhatsApp. She had just stopped answering.
He wanted something. She didn't.
Right then, Back to Friends, by sombr, started playing. It felt as if the song had been put there on purpose.
He looked at me.
— Why is she doing this to me? What did I do? Give me a solution.
— I don't have a solution. I have clarity.
— Then explain it to me.
— Everyone has their own values. Emotional, physical, financial... In the end, anything can become an object of interest. What changes is the interest we have in it.
He stared at me.
— Desire is not a contract. It's a loan.
— What do you mean, a loan?
— Think about it. Someone lends you a screwdriver. You use it and give it back. Fine. Then you come back and demand the whole toolbox. The person looks at you and says, “Are you out of your mind? I only lent you a screwdriver because you seemed like a decent guy.”
— That has nothing to do with this.
— It has everything to do with it. You want to turn an experience she shared with you into an obligation she never agreed to.
— But I want her for myself.
— See? You want her. And that's exactly where you start suffocating her.
— But how can she not tell me anything?
— Because not replying is also a reply.
He fell silent.
— So she stayed with me, went out with me a few more times, and then turned me down because she realized I wanted something more?
— Exactly.
— Are you saying I'm the problem?
— I'm saying you received exactly what she was willing to offer. You wanted more. She didn't. And that doesn't turn her desire into a debt.
He took a deep breath.
— You don't know how I feel.
— No. I don't.
— Then how can you talk like that?
— Because you're responsible for what you feel. I don't know what you feel. And I don't know what she feels either. The difference is that, in her case, there's one thing you do know: she doesn't want to continue.
— She could be with someone else. Or another woman.
— She could.
— So you think I just have to accept it?
— No. You can suffer, be sad, miss her, be pissed off. All of that is yours. You just can't turn your suffering into an obligation for someone else.
He stared at me for a few seconds.
— You're crazy.
— I promised clarity, not a solution.
He shook his head.
— You're too harsh.
— Maybe.
He walked away furious.
And maybe that was precisely the problem: he didn't just want to feel. He wanted what he felt to mean something to her too.