I dated a man once upon a time who I believed was more in love with the idea of me, than the actual me.
He was sweet and doting over the phone, wrote me sweet nothings in emails and birthday cards, told his friends "I was the one."
But when we were together he seemed distant, as if he was still searching for something I couldn't offer.
It was as if he was dating that other girl.
That perfect version of me, rather than the real me.
He wanted sweet and smitten.
I was sometimes brass and distant.
He wanted 24-hour-a-day beauty.
But sometimes I got sick and looked like hell.
He wanted "Ms. Perfect."
I was "Ms. Real."
And so I waited for the other shoe to drop.
For him to realize that a whole human being is worthy of love, not just an idea of perfection.
But that shoe never did.
Instead I struggled for years to fill hers.