When Luck was a thief

-A journey of reclaiming love and self-trust-

He was bad luck.

At first, I felt I was having the most beautiful experience—the wonders of loving someone again. With his fun actions, long conversations, and walks under the rain, he disguised himself as a gentleman who carried me over puddles to show his strength, convincing me I was lucky to have found him. His name might as well have been 'Luck,' he said, with that proud, outward confidence, so sure he could be as splendid as he wanted to be. I admired that.

Despite my sharp intuition and emotional intelligence, my unique way of seeing the world, my creativity, and my capabilities, I thought he was someone to strive for. I believed I was lucky to have found someone who could inspire me for more, someone whose confidence might shine on me too.

Yet, I did not come to steal from him. I did not intend to turn off his light; I only wanted it to be brighter so it could illuminate me, too. What I did not know was that inside all that glimmer, there was a deep dusk that unconsciously kept him from becoming the Luck I most desired. Slowly, like a snail on its path, he began to rob me—not just of love, but of my trust in my own emotions. Each step took more than just my time; it made me question myself. He turned my benevolence into doubt, my need for affection into guilt, and each time I tried to express my feelings, he wore me down. He reminded me that my emotions were somehow wrong, selfish, and foolish. My truth became blurry, betraying my own mind.

And with that same confidence of an American soldier on a battlefield, he dismantled my walls of protection and security without realizing there was a door—a way to enter my heart gently, loving who I am and respecting my feelings. Instead, he demolished the wall and took all my precious possessions. He cracked open my vault of love, leaving it empty and echoing, yet still too naïve to realize the extent of the theft. Still, he did it. He did it and never apologized for it, never understood it, never accepted it, never owned it. He was never responsible. He simply took without thinking about what was going to be left for me; only his feelings mattered, and how all that was mine made him feel—that sentiment of grandiosity he so much desired. But inside, he only held fear—a fear buried so deeply it made him commit all those larcenies right in daylight, right in front of the faces of his prey.

Was I a prey? A prey as desirable and easy to catch as a giraffe in the wild, hunted for good luck and the pomposity the hunter feels in the snapshot with his innocent catch. He might have caught, photographed, and displayed me, but what was taken from me is not his to keep. I am no naïve giraffe for a hunter's trophy. Inside me is a lioness defending my purest possession: self-love and the right to my own feelings. He took advantage of the open doors of trust, and in doing so, he only revealed his fear—a thief who hides from the lioness whose truth would expose his own weaknesses. He is not the kind of hunter who fights a lioness. He simply can’t. He only takes when it is easy and when given the space to, recklessly and unconsciously. So, he ran with everything he snatched and never looked back. As cold as the winter winds feel in my hands, he simply annihilated my wall and parts of my house.

He was bad luck.

I wish I could wish him well and envision his happiness. One day, I will. But for now, forgive me—I cannot just sweep away my feelings. I don't love him anymore. I am not even angry or disappointed, but sad for him. I know that he still doesn’t know himself or what he does to others with his burglar mask and forced smile. I hope one day he can smile with the same intensity I do, laugh as I do, and see others with the truthful ojos I have. I hope he can feel what it genuinely means to amar. But for now, I know he simply can’t, and that is why he steals.

Yes, he was bad luck. But luck is just a gamble, and I do not want to keep playing. I want real feelings, and I want to build my house with concrete walls of love, with a door that will only open to gentle visitors who know how to take care of and protect me—and the gentle giraffe and fearless lioness that live inside. No more reckless, soulless soldiers like him.

My house was left in pieces, but brick by brick, I laid down strength, resilience, and quiet defiance that says: I am not a gamble. I am a choice, a foundation built not for fleeting luck but lasting love. In this house of stone, I leave no room for luck—only love. I'm not waiting for a chance; I’m building for love, for a foundation that no thief can touch and no doubt can shake.