Nadia Barnard

The relationship was like a shooting star, it shone brightly but faded quickly and it happened so fast, I was still digesting the idea of us before it was all over.

I was working as a manager at a restaurant when she started working as a waiter, fresh from the UK, living her life as fully as she could as a full blown lesbian. I instantly found her attractive but ignored it. To be honest, I’ve always been attracted to both men and women, a bit of a bi-curious streak. When she was also made a manager, we had to interact more. I tried to keep our relationship as professional as possible, but it seemed impossible. Before I knew it, she was joining my friends and me when we went out.

Things started to get more intense, especially at work. My attraction to her started to consume my every thought. It got to the point where I could barely be in her presence without dropping something, walking into something, or uttering incoherent ramblings. I felt like an idiot. My mind kept screaming at me: “Step away from the girl, I repeat, step away from the girl!” I also knew she was going back to the UK soon, but like a moth to a flame, I couldn’t resist her. She realised it and began to pursue me.

She invited herself over to my house for dinner; there was enough nervous energy between us to blow the roof of the house. When it became late, my housemate suggested she spend the night and I hastily retreated to my room while she stayed behind on the sleeper couch. My heart was racing, a million and one things running through my mind. I was unable to think straight, unable to sleep. I knew I was at a crossroads.

So I chose one of the roads and texted her, asking her to come to my room. We sat on the bed for a few minutes—a mini eternity—and then started kissing. Before I knew it, I lost my virginity for the second time, this time to a beautiful girl. There were no real firework moments—the best was afterwards, lying cuddling and being in the moment together. We stayed awake most of the night talking and exploring.

The sleepovers went on for about a month. No one at work knew and that added fuel to the excitement of the experience. There were glances, words, subtle touches. I tried to convince myself the relationship was just for fun. But each sleepover wasn’t just about the sex; it was also the emotional and intellectual connection we shared, getting to know each other better. When the dreadful goodbye was upon us, with only one week left before she went back to the UK, I realised I wasn’t just falling in love, I was crushing in love.

A few days before she left, she came to my house after goodbye drinks for her at work. She confessed that she slept with one of the other managers, a guy, and it had happened at work the previous weekend. Suddenly the whole fairytale crashed into a million pieces. Her excuse was that her dad didn’t want her to be gay, so she gave it one final shot with a guy. She told me she loved me and it made me furious. How can you break someone’s heart like that and then tell them you love them? It is like deliberately punching someone in the stomach, then saying sorry and expecting that person to accept your apology.

We talked before she left; I wanted to fix the unfixable.

I kept saying it wasn’t her fault I was so upset, that it was my own because I should have never allowed myself to fall in love. All the alarms and smoke signals had been there. I blamed it on the movies, on fairytales, for making us believe that nothing can stand in the way if you love someone.

I felt desolate about the whole experience for months after she left. I was depressed and couldn’t believe that someone who knew how you felt could make you feel so miserable. One of my friends once told me, don’t screw the screw. If only I had listened.

Nadia Barnard is someone who loves new adventures and ticking items off her bucket list.