Before You Start Imagining Things, You Should Know I’m Living an Entire Existence You’ve Never Seen

I was at a pub catching up with a friend when some guy planted himself in the seat beside me. His opening line? “Just so you know, I’m already taken.” I turned to him, grinned, and replied, “Just so you know, I’m living an entire existence you’ve never seen.”
That made him laugh—genuinely surprised. You could tell he wasn’t used to that kind of response. Most people either get flustered or roll their eyes and look away. But I wasn’t interested in being hit on, and I definitely wasn’t interested in being “warned off.” I’d just survived one of the hardest stretches of my life, and all I wanted was a cold beer, some chips, and a few good laughs with my friend Meera.
Still, he didn’t leave. Introduced himself as Ozan. Turkish roots, raised in Berlin, currently based in Birmingham. Something tech-related, something involving cryptocurrency. He had that polished look—the kind with a sleek smartwatch, designer-casual jacket, and spotless shoes that didn’t match the vibe of this dive.
Meera shot me a knowing look. She recognized the type immediately: someone accustomed to turning heads. But I wasn’t interested in playing along.
“So what’s this whole life, then?” he pressed, still wearing that smile.
“Let’s see—demanding job, wheezy cat, and a landlord who treats hot water like it’s optional,” I said. “Oh, and three brothers who are convinced they know more about my romantic prospects than I do.”
He let out a genuine laugh. “Okay, fair.”
He hung around a while longer, mostly talking to Meera, which suited me fine. Honestly, I was exhausted. I’d recently relocated back to Birmingham after spending seven years in Manchester—what you might generously call a major life pivot.
I hadn’t been transparent with most people about why I came back. The official story was either “career opportunity” or “family reasons.” Both contained fragments of truth. The actual reason? Someone broke my heart.
Not just any heartbreak, either. I’d been engaged. Shopping for houses. Two years invested. Then one morning over toast and coffee, my fiancé Rami casually announced, “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”
For “this”—meaning what, exactly? Me? Our future? Marriage itself? He never bothered to specify. Just threw some clothes in a bag, promised to reach out. Spoiler: he never did.
So no, I wasn’t in the market for witty banter with confident tech entrepreneurs at pubs. I was in reconstruction mode, trying to piece my life back together.
But Ozan kept resurfacing. First at that bar—The Thistle and Pike. Then, bizarrely, at my gym the following week. I’m not exaggerating. He walked right past me in the free weights area, did a visible double-take, and said, “Wait—Wheezy Cat Lady?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, even as I rolled my eyes. “Still have that girlfriend?”
“She ended things yesterday.”
That caught me completely off guard. He said it so casually, like he was mentioning the temperature outside.
“Oh. Sorry to hear that,” I offered, unsure whether he was serious.
He gave a slight shrug. “Probably for the best, honestly.”
After that encounter, we developed this undefined connection. Friends? Gym acquaintances? People who occasionally texted late at night? We had this odd, almost cinematic pattern. We’d bump into each other, get absorbed in conversation, mention getting together properly, then never actually schedule anything. But I didn’t mind. There was no pressure attached.
Then one evening, I invited him to my place. Nothing elaborate—just a random Wednesday where I threw together some pasta, uncorked some wine, and we settled in for a truly awful movie. Midway through, he asked, “So why did you actually come back here?”
I hesitated. My brain wanted to deliver the prepared answer. But something about his expression made me offer the real version.
“Got my heart smashed. Wedding was ninety days out. He bolted. I freaked out. Ran home.”
Ozan didn’t immediately respond. He simply reached over, refilled my wine glass, and passed it back to me.
“He’s an idiot,” he said softly.
And that’s when things got complicated.
I started developing actual feelings for him. Not just casual attraction. Like, I could envision brewing him morning coffee, joking about headlines, sending him ridiculous photos of my cat doing weird stuff.
And I genuinely believed he felt it too.
Until that wedding invitation showed up.
Meera was the one who gave it to me during lunch.
“Why am I looking at a wedding invite?” I asked, confused by the fancy gold envelope.
She hesitated. “It’s not for you. It’s Ozan’s. Got mailed to my apartment by accident. He must’ve used my address at some point.”
She pushed it toward me. I opened it.
Ozan Deniz & Leila Farouk
Wait, what?
My chest tightened. I stared at the elegant script. Same Ozan. Different bride.
I looked up at Meera. “You already knew?”
“Just found out myself yesterday,” she said carefully. “He told me it’s… complicated.”
Complicated?
I bolted from that café so quickly, I left my bag behind. Ignored his texts. Let his messages sit unread.
Seven days later, he appeared outside my apartment.
“I wasn’t dishonest with you,” he said. “We’ve had an on-again, off-again thing for years. She wanted space. That night we met? We were officially broken up.”
“Officially,” I repeated flatly.
He moved closer. “None of this was calculated. I didn’t anticipate developing feelings for you.”
“Well, congratulations on your upcoming marriage,” I said, and closed the door in his face.
He remained standing there long after I’d locked the deadbolt.
That should’ve been the final chapter. But reality rarely cooperates.
Two months down the line, my brother Ziad got married. I was in the wedding party. Massive Lebanese celebration—200 guests, nonstop dancing, endless courses. During the reception, someone tapped me from behind.
Leila. The bride-to-be.
My stomach dropped. But she looked… composed. Not hostile. Not accusatory.
“Can we step outside for a minute?” she asked.
I agreed. We walked into the hotel’s garden area. She looked around briefly, then met my eyes directly.
“I’m not going through with it,” she announced.
“Sorry, what?”
“I cancelled the wedding. Last week. I saw your conversations.”
Guilt washed over me. “We never… I didn’t cross any lines. We barely—”
“I’m aware,” she interrupted. “But the way he communicated with you? I could see he was never completely present with me.”
I had no idea how to respond. Despite doing nothing technically wrong, I’d allowed feelings to develop. I’d let them take root.
“I just thought you deserved to know,” she continued. “You weren’t some interloper. You were the reality check.”
That phrase stuck with me for months.
Three months went by without contact from either of them. I threw myself into work, attempted yoga (absolute disaster), helped my mother renovate her kitchen.
Then in June, I encountered Ozan again. Not face-to-face—on a massive billboard. He was featured in some new tech startup’s advertising campaign. Smiling broadly, holding up a smartphone.
Something about seeing that image made me feel… unburdened. Like that whole chapter had finally, officially closed.
A few weeks afterward, I was strolling through Cannon Hill Park with my headphones on when someone touched my shoulder.
Ozan.
Naturally.
He looked transformed. Longer beard, exhausted eyes.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
I nodded.
We walked silently for about ten minutes. Then he said, “Everything collapsed. Not just the relationship. My position. Investors bailed. The whole company went under.”
I blinked. “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”
He shrugged slightly. “I probably earned some of it. Maybe all of it.”
I didn’t disagree.
“You still cross my mind,” he admitted. “Not because I want something from you. Just… you made me confront who I pretend to be versus who I actually am.”
That observation affected me more than it should have.
He didn’t request my contact information. Didn’t propose meeting for coffee. Just offered a melancholy smile and said, “Look after yourself, Wheezy Cat Lady.”
That was our final encounter.
Twelve months later, I met someone new.
Not in a bar. Not through an app. At a secondhand bookstore. We both reached for the same title—The Year of Magical Thinking—and laughed at the awkward moment.
His name was Arjan. Leeds native, half Punjabi heritage, worked as a social worker.
He didn’t do dramatic romantic gestures. He just showed up consistently. Remembered tiny details. Asked genuine questions and actually absorbed the answers.
On our third date, I shared the Ozan situation with him. Just the overview, nothing too detailed. He nodded thoughtfully and said, “Sounds more like education than tragedy.”
That perspective resonated deeply.
This past June, Arjan and I signed a lease together. My asthmatic cat protested the entire moving process, but she’s adapting.
Some evenings, my mind still drifts back to that pub. That specific moment.
“Before you get your hopes up…”
Back then, I believed I needed armor against disappointment. Now I understand—the people who issue warnings are often already planning their exit.
But the ones who stick around? The steady, genuine ones? They’re where real stories begin.
So here’s what I’ve learned: before you get your hopes up, remember this—
Hope only becomes dangerous when you place it in unreliable hands.
If this resonated with you, share it with someone who could use this perspective today.