Creative Nonfiction: The Heartbreakers' Derby

By Hope Mills 

I took a brief break from healing to obsess over an unavailable man. Clean-cut, tight-lipped and wholly unreachable, C was sandalwood with top notes of disinterest. A man easy to weave scenarios around because he never asked questions, never shared much. C personified my fantasy of the quintessential college boyfriend: an easy-going lover who you only do the fun parts of a relationship with. A refuge, a shelter, an omission, a lie – I have never been so carefree.

It was a well-worn melody. C and I stepped out onto a dimly lit stage from opposite ends of a creaky floor, eager to play the familiar tune. Spotlights adjusted on our instruments as we sat down across from each other. Eye contact, two ragged breaths, and the game was on. C chorused delicately, sharply as I anticipated his next note. Each stolen glance and knowing smile changed the pitch, and increased the stakes. I was a distance away, but I could feel my opponent wavering – a slight delay on the strings, and I chased to attune the difference.

It was a near-para-social relationship. Aside from being a well-matched player, C had something I craved: stable hands. A happy family, a good career, direction. So, I broke the musician’s cardinal rule: I let my fingers slip off the strings just long enough for the room to tremble, and for him to win. For the next few moons, I fantasised that he would realise we were more than lust, take me out on a date and rescue me. I hoped his self-assurance would seep into my skin by osmosis, and his presence would hand me the ultimate payout – distraction.

It was unfair to place such high expectations on him, particularly when I never voiced them. C was a virtuoso, only focused on refining his side of the melody; I was merely his musical partner for a short number. It wasn’t personal. After the performance, when adrenaline was searing through our veins in a way that made the fantasy seem plausible, a thought sliced the air. The curtain dropped in a decisive moment: C was the one.

I’m joking. I realised I had met a man who mirrored my avoidant tendencies. In my usual pattern, I initiated a game of hot-and-cold until I got my fix, then parted in search of the next high. By these standards, C seemed a worthy adversary. All is fair in love and war, even more so when the two intertwine. Amid the adventure, the rush seemed worth the risk, but it never was. I only pretended to be disinterested, denying my nature while realising he was being true to his own. I knew then that it had been just as difficult for some of my potential loves to understand me, and I sent a silent apology to the men I could have loved, were it not for my stubbornness. 

Looking at my past for release, I stumbled onto an old crush. Six years earlier, the object of my affection was an identical archetype to C. An uncanny similarity: a green-eyed Libra athlete who knew how to talk his way out of anything. Both relationships were a cacophony of “accidental” touches and inside jokes, never breaching the physical. Ample ammo for overthinking. I happily wasted time kicking my feet up in the air, dreaming of what my crush would say next. Imagine if I had put all that work into my career.

Once, during an argument, D noted that I was acting inhumanely. He saw that I lacked the compassion I expected from others, pointing out whenever I would play the victim. This is painful to recall because he was right. In my girlhood, I was more emotionally unavailable, avoidant and temperamental than the closeted chaos-addicts I dated. I clung to the idea of an ideal me, one without scars, but I was never willing to work toward becoming the version of myself I dreamed about. C reminded me of how nonchalant I had been, how callously I had conducted myself with those who cared for me. I pondered this ad nauseum until I saw my reflection in his actions. It mortified me to realise I had led good people on in the same ways, just as many times.

Avoidant attachment is a drug. For years, I reaffirmed dormant trust- and abandonment-issues by choosing partners I knew were incompatible. I reveled in the chase, digging into my need for distance, mystery, and misery. My ethos was: if I am unreachable, I am unhurtable. 

But this tactic is a failed remedy because it comes at the expense of honesty. There is no real connection without trust, and anaesthesia always wears off. In the end, we must face our brokenness with a delicate, forgiving hand. Undoubtedly, it is much easier to lie; to live in the fantasy of a partner’s potential rather than admit the failure of our innermost fantasy of being loved. Acknowledging and analysing patterns is the only way to heal these wounds and free ourselves from lovelessness.

It wasn’t all melodrama with C – the realisation of my misguided affections filled a vacant spot in my heart. It was a relief to step off the tracks as I saw an approaching train. It was time to live again, and for myself this time. So, I set out across the pond, feet firmly planted in the white-hot sand of reality. First stop: Guatemala City.

Hope Mills is a Lithuanian-Irish writer. Her work explores mental health, grief, and coming-of-age. Sometimes it's fictional, sometimes it's not. Hope graduated from University College Dublin, Ireland's largest university, with a BSc in Sociology, Politics & International Relations in 2023. Hope self-published her debut memoir The Year of Rejection in October 2024, after two years of writing. She splits her time between Dublin and Ignalina.