We met at a boba shop on Santa Monica Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue perfectly situated between our apartments in the lively heart of West Hollywood. I wore light-wash jeans with rips at the knees and a purple North Face long-sleeve that read “Save the Polar Bears.” My beige jacket was fluffy and felt excessive for an L.A. winter. My dark brown hair was pulled back in two braids.

I sat at one of the bistro tables, my nerves tingling. The crisp winter air flowed in through the open doors, carrying the thrill of a first date. A few minutes later, I spotted him turning the corner. He approached in oversized light-wash jeans and a black hoodie, his cap casting a shadow over his face.

When he stepped into the shop’s fluorescent light, his bright blue eyes, lightly lined with black eyeliner, met mine. He smiled, and I noticed how his teeth were perfectly square bar his canines, gleaming in a way that made me self-conscious.

“Nathanael?” I said, a hint of hope in my voice.

“Hello, love,” he replied, his British accent warm and inviting. He pulled me into his tall, lean frame, and I inhaled the scent of him — something akin to a chimney. “We almost match,” he said, teasingly grasping the collar of my jacket. A flutter of warmth spread through me, and I laughed, momentarily speechless.

After ordering my boba, I suggested we play the games tucked under the tables. “I just won fourth place at my family’s Christmas poker tournament,” I said proudly, shuffling the deck.

“Fourth?” he raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes, fourth,” I confirmed, nodding with a mix of pride and embarrassment. He congratulated me, his amusement evident, and let me teach him blackjack while we waited.

We flirted and exchanged charged glances between rounds. After I beat him three times, we moved outside so he could smoke, the night air sharp against our skin.

The walk back to his apartment was short, and I couldn’t seem to stop laughing. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was funny or because I liked him — maybe both. Stopping in front of his building, he asked what I wanted to do. It was already 11 p.m. It should have been more difficult for me to answer.

“I thought we were going inside,” I said.

For the next five months, we had a casual arrangement that was as exhilarating as it was confusing. I found myself analyzing him often. I theorized that he learned the art of conversation through music. As for his talent for seduction, I think it was a blend of deep-seated insecurities and the kind of charm that comes with being a former rock star.

To say I was drawn to him would be an understatement. I was fascinated by his resilience, fueled by a diet of cigarettes and Coke Zero. How had he not cracked? But it was his intensity, paired with a surprising kindness, that truly captivated me.

I had always been kind, but I wore it plainly. In Nathan’s presence, my austerity felt obvious and anything but cool. I imagined the type of girl he would fall for: someone who could dye her hair any color and still look effortlessly stunning, turning heads wherever she went. When she smiled at him, utterly smitten, all the men in the room would swoon with envy. She thrived on love, effortlessly embedding herself into his life, making it hard to remember how they’d even started dating to begin with. And then, inevitably, it would all come undone, leaving him in the wreckage, as if she were a tornado sweeping through the Midwest.

I was a 6 at best, a little chubby, highly sensitive and riddled with social anxiety. I have an aversion to relationships and monogamy because I don’t believe you can truly depend on anyone. I hate sleeping in other people’s beds and can’t fathom spending all day with a man without developing at least one repulsion to him. I’ve never been an object of envy because the last place I’d be is out somewhere other men could see me, especially that cool party last Saturday night or at Barney’s Beanery … ever. Most important, my intensity was that of a soft breeze.

I knew our casual arrangement would never graduate to more. Yet, despite this, the longest I could go without responding to him was a day.

Five months in, I found myself on the floor, surrounded by the shattered remains of the porcelain ashtray I’d bought him. He’d mentioned moving to a new apartment, so I had purchased it for him as a housewarming gift, hoping to bring a touch of beauty to the ritual of his favorite companion. But then he didn’t text me for an entire month. In a fit of tears, I smashed it, cutting my hands on the porcelain shards.

Amid the broken pieces of my thoughtful gift, revelations began to surface. I remembered a night when Nathan asked, “Why do women get so mad at me when I won’t sleep with them?”

I replied, “Because rejection hurts.”

Even as his casual mention of female attention stung, my answer felt insightful. Rejection is personal; it cuts deep.

It seems trivial to compare rejection to real loss, but it can be just that — the loss of something you never really had. It breeds a unique kind of shame, the ache of wanting someone who doesn’t want you back.

I realized I’d never felt truly accepted by Nathan. I kept returning, hoping he could alleviate the rejection I didn’t even recognize. The truth is, I was the only one who could do that by allowing that feeling to exist, alongside myriad other emotions inside me.

And it got better. I learned that fixating on what I wasn’t only led to misery. When I decided to move on, I broke that cycle of negative thoughts. I didn’t consciously seek out the things I liked about myself, but they emerged naturally to my surprise, as I resumed life again.

The author is a somewhat new resident to L.A., specifically West Hollywood. She loves L.A. and feels grateful to live in such a diverse and vibrant city. Outside of work, she likes to document her experiences through short stories and essays. To keep updated on more of her work, see her Instagram @lyssacady or @thenaughtypoet on Wattpad.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.