Dear Tessa,
I’ve been following Curvy Cupid for two years, ever since my divorce left me convinced I’d never find love again. I was fifty-three, overweight, and terrified. Your content taught me that my worth wasn’t determined by a number on a scale or a man’s attention, and that I didn’t have to settle for anyone who didn’t make me feel sensational.
Last month, I met someone. He’s kind and funny and… he just gets me. We’re getting married in June. I wanted you to know that none of this would have happened without you. Because of you, I took a chance. And now I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.
The tears come fast and hard.
I’m overwhelmingly proud that my work makes a difference. That somewhere out there, a fifty-three-year-old woman is planning her wedding because my words gave her the courage to know her worth and not accept anyone who didn’t treat her right.
But beneath the pride, envy coils tight in my stomach. Because this woman found her person. She took the leap and landed safely. She’s living the happily-ever-after I’ve longed for my entire adult life.
How many more women will I help find love while I stay stuck on the outside looking in? How many more success stories will I celebrate while my own heart keeps breaking?
I close the email and stare at the blank recording screen.
It was supposed to be one night. A favor for an intriguing stranger. A chance to wear the dress I’d been saving for something special. A date with someone I thought I had real chemistry with. I wasn’t supposed to fall for him. I wasn’t supposed to lie awake replaying the humid air of the Conservatory, orchids brushing my skin, his hands in my hair, the way he whispered my name against my throat like I was the only woman in the world he wanted. I wasn’t supposed to keep reaching for the feeling of his body pressed against mine, the way the entire world ceased to exist when I was in his arms and we were making love.
I pick up my phone. Open our text thread. Read back through the messages from before the gala—the flirty ones, the ones that made my stomach flip, the ones where he saidI’m sure, and I let myself believe this felt different from other men. The thread ends with my unanswered message I sent two days after the gala.
Tears prick my eyes at the absence of a response.
Joanie comesfor our weekly in-person meeting and finds me still in my filming chair, mascara smudged, camera untouched.
“Okay.” She sets down two glasses of wine and perches on the edge of my desk. “Talk.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You haven’t posted anything new since before Valentine’s Day. Your DMs are blowing up asking if you’re okay. And you look like you’ve been crying.” She pushes one of the wine glasses toward me. “So talk.”
I pick up the glass and take a sip. I’m scared of drinking too much because that makes me scared I’ll make a fool of myself. I don’t know how it’s possible to be so enthralled by a man in such a short time, but I’m crazy for him. “He left.”
“Left where? The gala?”
“The Conservatory.” I spin the glass between my palms, watching the wine swirl. “We were at the gala. We went to the Conservatory for a little privacy…” My voice catches. “It was magical with him. Then his phone rang. He said he had to go, and he left. He hasn’t called, hasn’t texted. Nothing.”
Joanie’s quiet for a moment. “And you haven’t reached out either?”
“I have! Said I hoped everything was okay, to call me when he could.” My laugh is brittle. “I was very chill and not clingy. It was more ‘hey, had a great time. Give me a call.’ That’s not how I felt then or how I feel now.”
“Which is?”
Joanie’s question makes my hands tremble, and I set the wine down before I spill it.
“Terrified,” I admit. “Because for one night, Joanie, I felt like a princess in a fairy tale. Don’t laugh, but it really felt that special. I let myself think that maybe I’d finally found someone who wanted all of me.” My voice wavers. “No one’s ever made me feel as special and desired as he did.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m wondering if I imagined the whole thing. If I was so desperate for connection that I invented chemistry where there wasn’t any.” I press my palms against my eyes, blocking out thering light’s glare. “This is what I warn my followers about. The fantasy of the first few weeks. Mistaking one intoxicating night for something lasting. Believing promises that haven’t been tested.”
“Tessa.” Joanie’s hand lands on my shoulder. “What would you tell someone writing in to Curvy Cupid right now?”
I already know the answer. I’ve given this advice a thousand times.
“I’d tell them to communicate. To be brave. To reach out and get clarity instead of suffering in silence.” The words feel heavy in my mouth. “I’d tell them that assumptions kill more relationships than truth ever could.”
“So?”
