This Is Not A Love Story.

He chased me for years and suddenly i owe him a yes?

Yasir.

He wasn’t even mine to begin with. He was the friend of a past almost, one of those blurry, unfinished connections that never quite became something but still managed to scar. He met me at a dinner I didn’t want to attend, hosted by a man I didn’t even like. Yasir locked eyes with me like he’d just seen his future. He hadn’t even said hello before he started plotting a forever I never signed up for.

And chase me he did.

Through changing hairstyles, shifting identities, heartbreaks that weren’t his to heal, and versions of me I no longer even recognize.

He was persistent, the kind of persistent that makes other women nudge you, whispering,

“Give him a chance, he really likes you.”

As if liking me were a currency.

As if affection alone should grant him access.

He waited in the shadows of my life like a noble background character, quietly watching me live, always waiting for his cue.

“When you’re ready, I’ll still be here,”

he’d say, proud and patient, like I should hand him a medal for emotional endurance.

Eight years. Eight whole years of him circling back, through job changes, my glow-up era, his beard growth journey, and several personal rebrands.

A birthday message here, a “thinking of you” there, voice notes long enough to count as podcasts. Just enough charm to make me pause but never enough to make me say yes.

And yes, I tried.

Not to give in, but to give it space.

To let him speak, to maybe find something real in his devotion. I opened the door slightly. And still, no. Because deep down, I knew: his love wasn’t rooted in who I am now.

It clung to a memory of me, soft-spoken, undefined, still becoming. He loved the version of me frozen in time.

The one who was too polite to call out a man who got a little too comfortable in the waiting room. And maybe he loved the idea of being the one who never gave up more than he ever actually loved me.

But there was a moment, fleeting, fuzzy, a little inconvenient when i thought maybe the problem was me. Maybe, despite everything, I liked him too.

Not too much, not in that heart-racing, all-consuming way. But just too.

Enough to make me hesitate.

Enough to make me wonder.

Enough to make me keep listening when I should have hung up.

It was the kind of like that felt embarrassing to admit because it never made it to love. It lingered quietly, like a question I never had the courage to answer. A curiosity. A flicker.

A possibility i didn’t quite want but couldn’t completely ignore either.

There were nights I asked myself:

Was I being unfair? Was I scared of what saying yes would mean?

Or worse was I scared of what it wouldn’t?

Because sometimes it felt like he liked the idea of me more than the mess of who I actually am. And maybe, just maybe, I liked the idea of being chosen so persistently. Maybe I liked being wanted so obviously. Maybe I liked that someone stayed. Even if I never asked him to.

But that’s the thing: liking someone isn’t the same as wanting them. And I never wanted him, not really. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way that moves you.

So maybe I liked him too. But only enough to wonder. Never enough to say yes.

The thing is, persistence isn’t the same as presence.

He didn’t know this woman, the one with a tougher skin, a fuller self, an earned softness. He only knew the girl he first met in someone else’s living room.

That’s the moment he claimed.

That’s the version he chased.

And worst of all, he gets under my skin.

Not in the butterflies way.

In the why are you still here way.

In the way that makes me question myself.

That guilt was i wrong for never wanting him? Was j cruel for not choosing the man who never left?

But no. I’m not sorry.

And I’m not confused.

Because just because someone keeps showing up doesn’t mean they deserve a seat at the table.

Loyalty isn’t love.

Longevity isn’t compatibility.

Yasir is the lesson, my lesson: not every chase ends in a catch.

And not every man who waits deserves to be chosen.

There’s something unnerving about a man who refuses to take a gentle no.

Who turns patience into performance.

Yasir never raised his voice. Never disrespected me.

But he lingered like fog, silent, steady, consuming.

He made himself small when I needed space and loud when I tried to move on.

He remembered anniversaries that didn’t exist. Recited moments I had long buried.

At some point, it felt like I was the villain in a story I never agreed to star in.

Love isn’t earned by time served.

Desire isn’t validated by how long you’ve waited. And true love, real love, doesn’t demand to be rewarded.

I nearly fell for it once.

Almost mistook devotion for depth.

Almost let the years and his gentleness seduce me into surrender.

Almost.

But the truth?

I don’t want a man who wears my resistance like a badge.

I don’t want to be worn down.

I don’t want to be guilt-tripped into romance.

I want love that sees me, not one that claims me. Love that grows with me, not one that clings to who I was.

He hovered for eight years. Uninvited.

Waiting for a finish line that didn’t exist.

People say I’m harsh. That maybe I should give him a shot.

That maybe I owe him something.

But those people weren’t there on the nights I wrestled with guilt.

They didn’t hear the whispers telling me I was too cold, too picky, too hard to love.

They weren’t there when i tried, really tried to find a spark and found nothing but duty.

So no.

I don’t feel bad.

I don’t owe him a try.

And I still don’t want him.

Because some men chase you for years not because they love you, but because they hate losing.

Yasir wasn’t chasing me.

He was chasing a moment. A myth.

A version of me I no longer live in.

And i? I’m not a prize at the end of a race.

I’m a whole damn person with direction, clarity, and standards.

So no.

I am not his reward.

A strict woman forever!