In the Ruins of Romance, I Built a Softer Love
We tried, we failed, we softened. A story about breaking open and staying tender despite massive change.
I’ve done some rash, impulsive shit in the name of love.
I attended a university within a few hours of proximity to a past love, to no avail when they vanished into the ether. Then, backpacked around Europe on what I deemed my “Sex in Every City” tour, traversing the continent for crumbs of affection. I made Paris my major attraction, where one evening I hit it off with a French aerospace engineer; we wandered into lust over drinks and cuddles. I returned two weeks later on a whim, during a national holiday, not realising he already had plans — leaving me to bed rot in a too-expensive hotel in Paris, crying over my misfortune. Later, a brief Before Sunrise-esque dalliance in Amsterdam brought me to my knees and introduced me to the culture of my future spouse. This individual, acting as an oracle, predicted my future partner's nationality and my initial role in our relationship. So when I met T in San Francisco after matching on golden-era OkCupid, I realised this was to whom my future fortune would be bound.
When we opened up our relationship to polyamory, my choices became increasingly fueled by my desire for attention and affection and marked the start of unstable, unchecked behavior. I met a baby bisexual at a play party through a mutual friend, whom I had instant physical chemistry with, and spent seven hours exploring before we embarked on a messy fling that ended in a failed weekend together. My spouse would later point out that I collapsed in exhaustion after multiple hours-long conversations, trying to discern what the fuck was going on between us. An almost year-and-a-half-long abusive/toxic relationship drained and tested my money, confidence, and will to live.
Love makes me a fool, repeatedly.
If loving too much makes me a fool, then I’ve made peace with the title.
But I’m not an idiot. When I planned a week-long vacation with my comet partner—someone I’d known for years, who I’d video-called with, texted daily, but had only spent less than 48 hours with in person—I knew things would change. I knew we’d learn things about each other we couldn’t unlearn.
Nine days together. Amsterdam (where I had to pick him up,) Granada, Córdoba, Sevilla. Warm spring nights and cheap vinos tintos. Laundry hanging on wires on the deck of our rental apartment. I brought four dresses in my suitcase and my heart was on my sleeve.
I’d be lying if I said it was easy.
At six years my junior, my comet partner is still finding his footing. I’ve always known this. His identity is clearer; I glimpse his future self. But falling for potential diverges from facing reality. Loving someone out of sync as a time traveler means waiting to synchronize with them. You breathe deeper to exercise patience, try not to parent them and try not to flinch when their immaturity shows.
But I stumbled and faltered when it mattered most.
On our travels together, I noticed his intense need for closeness; while I yearned for distance and space. When I checked in with my spouse, I named this discomfort and he responded, “That’s probably why it works and worked so well at a distance. You’re like me: You really need your space and alone time.” T wasn’t wrong. The comet's jokes felt inappropriate and unkind, unlike his intention. He wanted an impossible closeness which I could not give him. This trip aided us in re-negotiating our dynamic. We learned each other’s rhythms, got annoyed at each other, laughed together while we wandered and roamed the uneven cobblestone streets of whatever Spanish locale we were visiting until we grew tired of complacency. In the beginning, we navigated through cities like young lovers. The next days, more like siblings or a parent and child. And some moments, like awkward strangers forced to share a bed.
I know I sound dramatic, but there was sweetness and softness. We played around the Iberian peninsula, eating our way through Southern Spain. There were small moments that glimmered throughout our time: Treating him to his first Michelin-star meal, the way he would always tuck me in and kiss my forehead before sleeping, and the jovial spirit he carried when he got enough sleep, or when he tried a new beer. I no longer know how to best refer to him. Instead of resorting to labels, we choose to create a conscious shift into more intentional care and love for each other.
The optimal resolution causes temporal and physical distance. Our romantic edges softened on this trip, and the painful ache of utmost desire and the need for labels? Gone. The future holds something new and unknown. We love each other, however, we both need time to grow. A tether still exists between us, but instead of holding it taut, we loosen our grip.
I’m finding it difficult to maintain toughness and tenderness. I know I’ll continue to fuck up along the way, but despite a shift in the ways I move in relation to others, I’m content and grateful. The act of love requires opening one’s self up to the wide spectrum of human emotions. Without feeling pain, how could I experience and witness unimpeded joy?
I spent so long thinking love meant sacrificing one’s self to keep loved ones around. So that they would stay. However, life isn’t like that. People leave, change and grow apart all the time. Following last year's breakup with a toxic ex, I realized I should not align myself with people whose values don't match mine. Maybe that means we aren’t compatible long-term. That’s OK. I can witness and tolerate that now. I love so abundantly, but it doesn’t always have to err on the side of romance.
Witnessing someone else’s growth is beautiful. But sometimes it can be painful. I know I’m being vague, but I’m processing the change washing over me, him, us, and the greater world.
I used to think love had to be earned through pain. The more I withstood, the more it meant when things worked out. I held onto the massive amounts of hurt with the excuse of endurance as devotion. But love is not something to survive, it is, instead, something to celebrate and nurture. What if walking away lovingly, without resentment, is the kindest, truest act? How would it appear if feeling valued didn't depend on being chosen?
We laughed over cheap wine with sun-kissed shoulders and slept together with tangled limbs. And when the tenderness unraveled, we didn’t rip it to shreds. We folded it gently and carefully, chose silence over cruelty and space over resentment. Loving something doesn't require permanence. I still remember the quiver in his voice at one in the morning, the way we both knew without speaking that we were stepping into a new version of whatever this was.
In the ruins of romance, I built a softer love. One that is more tender and forgiving and doesn’t require strict labels or dispensed containment. Though I am still a fool, I’m no longer the kind who stumbles for spectacle or shapeshifts for approval. I linger in ancient palaces, listening to what unfinished architecture tries to say. In Granada, I thought about Charles V and Isabella of Portugal. Our Alhambra guide walked us through their political marriage turned into love, how they spent six months in honeymoon delirium, how he commissioned a palace inside the Alhambra for her, for them, for love itself. And how, when she died young, he couldn’t even bring himself to return to the city. He left the palace unfinished. Never stepped foot in it again. One could say he died of a broken heart.
I also walked through palaces that were never completed. I’ve loved people I couldn’t return to and built monuments inside myself to things that didn’t last. But unlike Charles V, I keep coming back. I leave flowers in the rubble, make homes out of the half-built ruins and laugh in the hallways.
Still a fool—but this time, with both feet on the ground. Face paint smeared, heart open. Not begging to be kept, but choosing to stay.
Thanks for reading Is This What You Want? If you’ve made it this far, I appreciate you deeply. If you’d like to support my work, I invite you to contribute one-time, monthly, or whatever feels right over at christalei.me/contribute—it helps me keep writing, creating, and breathing room into these messy, tender reflections. You can also support by sharing this publication with a friend or booking a peer support session with me (sliding scale available). Either way, I’m glad you’re here.
I'm always blown away by your brave and generous vulnerability, as you take us along for your ride. I loved the last section, beautiful observations, writing, and metaphors.
I have not read about romantic love in this complex way in which seemingly contradictory feelings and experiences are held together in the same heart space.
This, in particular, blew my mind:
"love is not something to survive, it is, instead, something to celebrate and nurture. What if walking away lovingly, without resentment, is the kindest, truest act? How would it appear if feeling valued didn't depend on being chosen?"