“Who wants to hear my story? Raise your hands!” I imagined asking.

The one hand, maybe the only hand, that goes up would be hers. She often asked about my past but other than what slipped out in dribs and drabs, she did not know very much else about me.

It wasn't that she was too nosy. She probably wanted to know where I was from, what my family was like, where I went to school, when I came to America, where I worked, what my hobbies were, where I traveled, what I read, what games I played. Things you ask of anyone you want to know better.

The thing is I was not good at talking about those kinds of things. It was not that I had anything to hide. But I did not want to be pre-judged. Not so much out of fear but to avoid the inconvenience of being judged. I mean the moment you open your mouth, people will want to know which neighborhood you are from, your social status and so on to size you up and either love you or hate you. They will judge you not on your accomplishments but on the circumstances your birth, something you no hand in choosing.

Let’s say you talk about your dog. Upper middle class. And a city boy. Your horse? Palatial aristocrat. Your cow? Poor. Country bumpkin.

See?

Our shallow selves come out when someone opens their lives to us. Being judgmental is only human. But being shallow in your judgement is what makes us the low-life scumbags that most of us are but pretend not to be.

I regret not having shared more with her. We broke up before she got to know me well enough. If she knew me better who knows what might have happened.

I think she loved me. The thing is I am no good with love and emotions. Feelings don’t really make much sense to me. I liked girls. For sex, not love. I know half the people reading this will judge me, but that’s okay, please feel free to do so. I don’t care. You are entitled to your opinions and feelings.

We met on Sajha chat. I messaged her. We became Facebook friends. She was cute. We met often. She wanted to get closer, talked about a life together and wanted me to open up about mine. That’s when I started feeling suffocated. She kept calling and messaging several times a day. She would call at work. Message me in the gym. She was everywhere in my day. I could not handle the magnitude of the attention.

She was a great girl in every other way. Beautiful, kind, gentle, forgiving, loving. Liked to cook, stay home with kids, write short stories, plant flowers and vegetables. Everything a traditional guy like me could ask for.

I was a coward. I ran away. Fled to another part of the country. She’s too short. Not pretty enough I told myself and anyone else who asked. The real reason, when I think of it now, was she was too good for me. I was more comfortable around girls with face piercings who shared a drag and got drunk with me. I was a drifter. What would a guy on my salary be able to offer her?

Ours was not the first story that started on Sajha. Nor will it be the last. I just wish I knew what love was back then to know that ours was not just any story, but a love story.

(sounds in the background)

That’s my wife in the kitchen. She is pretty and slender by most peoples standards. I fell for her looks. She is also a narcissistic, self-entitled, controlling bitch with an ego the size of Everest.

I know most people would say serves me right. But I wonder what she would say. Would she think I deserved better?