The Long Way — Part I

In a high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows along the Chicago River, with just the right amount of sunlight, is the perfect ambiance for a dreamer like myself. Most of my days are spent frolicking around my sanctuary, gazing out as monstrous yachts and tiny boats glide along the river, swaddled in my thoughts. It’s been weeks, and I’m still paralyzed in my tracks about him.

I didn’t know yet that this was a dream. I only knew it felt too good to question.

What makes a dreamer dream is that the very thing we ponder can transcend us into a different dimension, one that feels refreshing, full, and almost unreal. It scares us to the core, yet fulfills our wildest imagination of what our life could be. Really, what our life is if we allow it to be. Dreams are generous like that. They give us more than we’ve earned, just long enough to believe.

In a very short moment, he gave me that.

A night that was a mere coincidence, or maybe fate because I just told you I’m a fucking dreamer, had me crippled. This man pulled me into a space that felt reserved for real love, even though we had just met hours before. In a room full of people, he somehow made me feel as though it was just us. If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I’m an under-the-radar kind of woman. I enjoy being low-key, and he couldn’t have been more opposite.

We sat in a booth of a noisy club while he spoke to me as if we were sitting in a coffee shop. It was the way he noticed my shyness, motioned for me to dance, and became silly just to make me comfortable. He shamelessly admired my beauty, freely entangling his hands with mine as we strolled out of the nightclub.

Now, one could say it was the tequila flowing through our veins that drove our actions. I would be remiss not to acknowledge that detail, but it doesn’t take away from the very real feelings, dare I say connection, it gave me. And no, I’m not saying I fell for him in a single night, but damn, it felt good.

I plopped into my bed that night, too drunk to find his number in my phone, so I slid into his DMs just to tell him I made it home and maybe to confirm I wasn’t making the night up. We exchanged a few messages before sleep took over. The next morning, I woke up silently chuckling to myself in awe. Who the fuck am I? I thought. You don’t even know this man. Still, I’d be lying if I said he didn’t make me feel like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

A week and a half passed without hearing from him, and my mind spiraled. If I’m being honest, I had never been ghosted, especially not after a night like that. My ego was bruised. By then, all my closest girls knew about him, and I thank God for sisters who know how to gently pull you back to earth.

Sitting in my pink accent chair, staring out the window on FaceTime with my bestie Shamari, my heart quickened when she asked, “Why are you so afraid to let go of your ex?” I could have given a nonchalant answer, but instead I chose honesty, with her and with myself. He was familiar. Comfortable. A place I had returned to for years, hoping one day he would become everything I wished he could be.

But through therapy and a deeper relationship with God, I was forced to tell myself the truth. I wasn’t happy. No need to dive further. It really was that simple.

That week of silence from Mr. Apt 302 echoed what God had already been saying to me. How could God give me the man of my dreams if I wasn’t even willing to make space for him? I had done the emotional and spiritual work, but not the physical. Just days before meeting him, I was still tangled in familiarity, an old lover’s bed that felt safe simply because it was known.

Sham challenged me to end that situationship before giving Mr. Apt 302 another thought. And I did.

With time, he reached out, apologizing for his absence. Weeks later, we saw each other again. What was meant to be casual quickly wasn’t. Sitting across from one another at The Delta, surrounded by others, he somehow made it feel intimate. Our hands met across the table. His voice stayed low enough for our own conversations. R&B filled the room, and I caught myself thinking, no one could tell me this wasn’t my man in this moment.

In the quiet moments, I had already begun assigning him a role he never auditioned for.

I kept reminding myself that I didn’t know this man for real and needed to be chill. And yet, I melted every time. I could feel myself romanticizing in real time, and still, I let it happen.

Outside a small taco spot later that night, he wrapped me in his arms, intentional, gentle, and attentive to my comfort. His touch lingered right at the edge of what was appropriate, deliberate enough to be felt, restrained enough to be respected. He kissed me softly but confidently, holding my waist, looking at me like I mattered in that exact slice of time.

By then, we both knew we were entering territory neither of us expected. We were honest about our circumstances, other people, career transitions, uncertainty. Eventually, after another night out, he drove me home and called me so we could talk. I told him my truth. I was dating with intention. I wanted a life partner. What I thought could be a carefree summer romance had stopped feeling light.

He agreed. He told me he was deeply attracted to me but couldn’t pursue me fairly without making me a priority. We chose friendship and peace over selling each other a dream.

I got off the phone feeling grounded. That was the first moment the dream began to thin.

The next morning, I woke up with liquid emotions I didn’t expect. It wasn’t heartbreak. It was the sound of myself waking up.

Walking through the South Loop, starting down Wells and letting the city move around me, I stayed on the phone with my sis Grace as I made way to Wabash. Her calm carried me through that moment, reminding me that no experience is by accident.

I realized then that my tears weren’t about him. They were about transition. About God continuously molding me, rearranging parts of my life that no longer fit.

It felt like spiritual surgery. Uncomfortable. Invasive. Necessary. I realized God wasn’t giving me the gift yet. He was letting me sample what obedience could unlock.

I understood then that this wasn’t love. It was a glimpse. A reminder. An invitation.

I had been reading All About Love by bell hooks during this time, where she explains that love isn’t a noun, it’s a verb. Love is intentional, and self-love is the foundation of our loving practice. The dream wasn’t love. It was an invitation to practice it correctly.

So thank you, Mr. Apt 302. Not for staying, but for waking me up.

Some people aren’t meant to stay. They’re meant to wake you up

And sometimes, waking up is only the beginning.

Part II of The Long Way, I step back into the story that shaped me long before Mr. Apt 302. The love and the version of myself I was still learning to release.

If this piece resonated with you, I'd love to hear what it stirred in you. Feel free to share your thoughts below or send this to someone walking their own long way.

Until your next dose,

Tahj