For a while, I thought I had moved on, genuinely. I hardly thought of him. It was nice honestly. It was after letting go of him that I had been the happiest I ever was. He taught me lessons that I didn't even know I needed, about relationships and people and most importantly, myself. For a while, I wouldn't think about the fact that he looked like Ansel Elgort and that he could sing. I wouldn't be phased when I saw someone with similar features as his or when I saw an army jacket (he joined the airforce).

But then I would go on dates with other guys. And they were nice dates. They were genuinely good guys, and I genuinely liked them. But then when something didn't go exactly the way they would in romcoms, I would find myself crying supposedly about the situation, but my mind going back to him. For a while, I wasn't sure why I kept going back to him as the source of pain. I was over it. I was over the situation. Things didn't work out. He was a terrible person (yes he actually admitted this when he finally gave me closure in October). It had been established. I had moved on. So I couldn't understand myself.

And then it hit me. I always went back to him as the cause of pain because this way, no other guy would be able to have the power to hurt me. I already knew and accepted that he had hurt me in ways that I can only hope to never experience again. In a way, I had accepted that he had that kind of power over me, and since I had moved on from it, I was surprisingly content with keeping him in that position when I needed him to.

And it was this realization made me understand what people meant when they said that vulnerability was scary. I thought vulnerability was beautiful. Being able to share your feelings with someone and being able to be open with them is something I strive for. And that's what I wanted with the guys that followed.

But I had to heal, and I realized it. I would either overshare or push people away. This wasn't limited to romantic relationships, for I found myself feeling suffocated by friendships when they felt too close.

For a short while, I questioned myself and why things had to be the way they were. Self-pity and wallowing were frequent habits. It was only natural, really. I saw it as a sign of humanity rather than weakness.

It was in the wallowing when I had realized how much he really did affect me. And while part of me hated the fact that I had allowed him to affect me the way he did and make opening up so much harder, another part of me was grateful. During the conversation I had finally gotten closure, he had told me that I was never assertive enough. "If you don't want someone like me coming into your life again, you have to grow a f*cking backbone," he had said. He wasn't very nice about it, not at all really. But he wasn't wrong. People tell me that I'm "too nice" or "not assertive enough," something along those lines. And I used to take it as some sort of twisted compliment. I mean, it's better to be "too nice" than an awful person, right? Well, perhaps, but it also gave room to be walked all over.

He's taught me a lot, in all honesty. What red flags to sprint away from (says a lot for someone who literally never runs), when to be assertive about my needs, realizing my worth, to be open and upfront with what I need, to trust my intuition, to love myself. And despite the long nights of anxiously waiting for his call and long nights of overthinking about whether he even liked me, I wouldn't go back and change any of it. I needed to experience what I did to grow into who I am today, and I really like that person. So, thank you. And you might thank your person too.