Ghosting is what you do for strangers. Why did he do it to me?

It was a beautiful February day in Los Angeles after fires. The sun burned hot above the head. I pulled my ducati motorcycle in a place outside his restaurant in the art district. I was hot, thirsty, hungry -three simple needs that were instantly faded when I saw it.

Michael.

Even with my dark helmet shield, our eyes blocked. He begs to produce the ramp to the kitchen, his movements as familiar to me as my own breath.

For a moment, time slowed down. The weight of the unsolved words, the unresolved heart, the unanswered questions hanging between us. I had spent two months trying to give the meaning of silence in which he left me. The last time I spoke, he threw a bomb late on Friday night, a few days before Christmas, accidentally, only he could.

“I’m not employed with you,” he said. Likewise, a simple blue sentence that blinded me.

And then, the knife turned.

“I really like this woman in San Diego. I see her for Christmas. “

I could still hear the words, to feel that numbness is sining, like a short circuit in my brain.

I didn’t just spend a perfect weekend in LA? Taking dinner at Bavel, following Liverpool’s game, my quiet intimacy reading as he walked his dogs. Didn’t I just go to the bread salon for my favorite bakery, I took it on its vintage BMW for a walk, did I share a moment that felt our unique?

And what about the sweetness of those two days in the Orange County: Cina, the Christmas game in Laguna, the laughing of the photo booth from a restaurant, as well as our first meeting 18 months before, chuckling and surprising our undeniable joy in courts?

The memories flooded as I sat on Ducati, asking why he was here, why his restaurant, which he was selling, had not yet closed scam and why this pain was still caught. Why did he die silent after treating me so careless? His last text on December 31, saying it was okay, needed time, would have been sick, but he would be in contact felt as an echo in an empty canyon. I gave him time. But what I received instead was nothing.

And nothing is a kind of cruelty.

Michael’s voice was joking.

“Rainie, I’m late! I don’t have time to talk to you. “

I proposed it. The heat pressed my face as I removed my helmet and then leather jacket. I met his gaze and asked the question that burned in me for the last time I spoke in December and his last text on December 31.

“Why would you ghost? Ghosting was what you do for strangers – for people who don’t matter. “

Did I really refer so little to him?

He had no real answer, but only a weak, “I thought it was better in this way for you.” He agreed that we could make a plan to speak “later”, once after the restaurant closed Escrow, which was still in the air. Then he told me to make myself home in the restaurant and told his staff to take care of me. Then he left.

I should have left. But I stayed.

Standing at the bar, I woke up in conversation with a stranger. Another Ducati rider.

Tim.

Three places down, he entered when the bartender asked about my bike. In a few minutes, we were deep in the conversation, attracted together by something simple, something easy.

I took a look at the clock – 15:09 what! How did it get so late? I had to get up to Mt. Wilson before darkening and cooling. I handed Tim my card and left, waiting for nothing.

That night sent a message. Then he called.

For three hours, I was laughing – I was really laughing for the first time in months.

Two days later, Tim and I met for a relaxed dinner at Roger’s Gardens. After that, when he kissed me, it was not just a meeting of the lips – it was a balm, a quiet silence that I was still here, still capable of connection, still alive.

The next morning, he jumped into his conference and brought my breakfast to bed. We decided to go together. But first, a stop at the motorcycle store and then a half -hour meeting at my oncologist. When I went out, there was – Ducati, next to mine, waiting.

I walked on the coast, snapped through the Canyon lagoon, El Toro Road, Santiago Canyon, stopping at Cook’s Corner for burgers. The conversation flowed as effortlessly as the miles under our tires. His laughter felt like the light of the sun filtered through a dense forest, reaching me that were dark for too long.

Tim ran Ducatis. He was an expert. And yet, when he looked at me, he said something unexpected.

“You are a good rider and your shape is perfect. Go better than any of my friends. “

Words hit differently than any compliment I have received for a long time. Somewhere in Michael’s silence, in his rejection, in the weeks of self -doubt, I began to believe that I am not enough.

That night, lying alone in my bed, I felt something changing.

Michael, who had once occupied every thought, every breath, who had not yet stretched to talk to me, seemed sudden … distant. Less important. The weight of his absence felt easier.

Not because Tim had replaced him. But because Tim reminded me of something I forgot: I.

Michael’s silence had stolen pieces of my confidence, had made me question my value. But a laughable, conversation, to reach speeds over 100 mph on my Ducati with someone who seemed to appreciate me and did not doubt me. I brought my confidence in front and center.

I could never see Tim again. But I will always be grateful for what he gave me without knowing: the fact that I am whole. That they are enough. That I don’t need Michael’s love or his silence, to define me.

The next morning, I slept, leaving the experience to settle, letting it feel.

Then I threw my jacket, grabbed my helmet and went out to Ducati.

I burst into joy and ready to leave. I finally went forward.

The author is a personal assistant in Orange County. Lives in the Newport Beach area. She is on Instagram: @rainienb

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