The Delusion

I agreed. Told him to give her my number. She texted, we set an appointment, and that was that. I wasn’t thinking much of it—I was a busy man with a firm grip on my pride. That grip would soon slip.

Elaine was punctual. And clearly out of place. The outfit, the accent, the air of “I have seen the world, and you, sir, are not impressive.” I noticed her in the waiting room but paid her no mind. I had seen pretty women before.

Then I walked into my office, and there she was. And that was the moment I became an absolute idiot.

I am not a believer in love at first sight. Turns out, I am a believer in whatever the hell that was. She was breathtaking. And I, a fully grown, educated man, was captivated. She, on the other hand, barely looked up from her phone. I asked questions. She answered flatly. I tried to hold eye contact. She glanced at me the way one looks at an ATM screen.

Turns out, she did not have malaria. But she still wanted relief from her symptoms, so I prescribed something mild and let the nurse handle it. When she was done, she popped into my office to say thank you and left before I could even respond. I, a medical professional, texted her five minutes later to ask if she was feeling better. As if the medication could perform miracles in 300 seconds.

Over the next few days, my interest morphed into obsession. I stalked her social media. Found her on LinkedIn. Read an old tweet from 2014. I wanted her. Badly. She, however, was less than thrilled. She made two things clear: I was five years younger than her, and she was in a relationship.

Neither of those things mattered to me. I invited her to a wedding. She declined. “I don’t know the couple. It’s weird to bring a stranger to a wedding.” Logical. Infuriatingly logical.

Each time she told me to slow down, I hit the gas. I was spiralling, but in my head, I told a different story. To my friends, she was “leading me on.” I conveniently left out how she had explicitly told me to chill. Eventually, she reached out to Crane. Let him know I was making her uncomfortable. And I? I was offended. How dare she damage my reputation like that? (As if my own actions weren’t doing a stellar job of that already.)

But I still wanted her. Even though I couldn’t say why. Whenever she asked, “What is it about me?” my only answer was “your looks.” A solid, meaningful foundation for a relationship, obviously.

She went silent. The silence was loud. My ego was bruised. To cope, I turned my attention to other women at work. It worked. For a while. Then, months later, she texted me out of nowhere.

I lost my mind again.

Told her she was God-sent. That I had prayed for this moment. That even my friends had assured me she’d come back. She was back in town. I invited her over. She came.

And before we could finish a conversation, I was all over her. We didn’t even make it to the bedroom. Just the living room floor. Twice. And for a brief moment, I thought—finally, I have her.

Then I made the mistake of asking her to leave her boyfriend for me.

She laughed.

“That’s not happening.”

I was floored. The math wasn’t mathing. Here I was, offering my whole, distinguished, respectable self, and she wasn’t even slightly tempted?

I decided to play games. Hot and cold. Make her miss me. She did not miss me. I tried fake vulnerability. Told her, “You’re breaking my heart.” She looked at me like I was a poorly written TV character.

My career made people respect me. But emotionally? Psychologically? I was a disaster. And I was too proud to admit it.

For years, we did this dance. She made deep promises. “If you get it together, maybe I’ll leave him for you.” And I? I believed her. I took that “maybe” and ran with it like it was a marriage certificate.

But my game of emotional distance backfired. She matched my silence with silence. And suddenly, I was the one wondering why the woman I wanted didn’t want me the same way.

Turns out, I was never playing her.

I was playing myself.