The Pain Behind the Wonder
His name was Mr. Wonder.
And wonder, I did.
I wondered what kind of man could have everything—charm, money, looks, and attention from everyone—but still choose to do nothing meaningful with it.
At first glance, he seemed like the perfect man. Tall enough, dark-skinned with a faint air of arrogance that some women find attractive. He had a smile that disarmed you, a scent that lingered long after he walked away, and a bank account that could silence the world. To the outside world, he was the definition of a dream man.
But behind that shiny surface was something rotten.
He was filthy rich. No sugarcoating it—mansions, cars, expensive shoes, designer perfumes, and yet, not even a birthday card for me.
Not once.
He spent freely on strangers. Flew his so-called "friends" out to luxurious resorts. Bought drinks for the whole bar. Gifted my best friend jewelry I never even saw. Yes—my best friend. Again.
If heartbreak had a cycle, I was the center of its orbit.
Mr. Wonder was like a glittering package wrapped in gold but filled with broken glass. He said he cared, he said he was trying, but somehow all his "efforts" left nothing but pain in their wake. He said he didn't know how to love… and unfortunately, he proved it every single day.
He claimed he wanted to experience love.
But how can you taste something when you refuse to open your mouth?
He lacked responsibility—not just financially, but emotionally. That's the part most men don't understand: it's not just about what you provide with money, it's about what you invest emotionally. And when a man doesn't understand that, no matter how perfect he may seem, he's still wrong for you.
Mr. Wonder was selfish. Not in the usual, loud, arrogant way. No—his selfishness was quiet, passive, and disguised as "being busy" or "not wanting to be a burden." He convinced himself he was doing enough. He wasn't.
Instead, he gave me something else—suspicion, silence, and secrets.
It started with his odd behavior around my best friend. I ignored the signs. I told myself it was all in my head. Until one day, I caught them together—again.
She was laughing at something he said, wearing a necklace he had bought. A necklace I had once admired.
My heart dropped.
He took her and her mother out shopping—yes, her mother. Bought them food, paid for spa treatments, and even gave them a wad of cash like they were contestants on some generosity game show.
Me?
I got nothing.
Not a single thoughtful gesture.
Not a flower.
Not even a cheap card on my birthday.
He said, "I didn't think you needed anything."
As if I had to beg for love.
But that wasn't the worst part.
No.
As if cheating with my best friend wasn't enough, I later discovered he was having an affair with a married woman. A mother of four.
Let that sink in.
He looked me in the eye, swore he'd changed, begged me to forgive him after the first betrayal. I gave him another chance. Foolishly. Willingly. Hopefully.
And he crushed it.
Again.
How many mistakes does it take before a man learns?
Seven? Ten? A hundred?
He got into the university and suddenly became untouchable. Parties, new girls, late-night "study groups." I heard the rumors. Saw the posts. Cried through the nights.
And I stayed.
Why?
Because I thought love was endurance.
Because I was scared to be alone.
Because I thought leaving meant losing.
But the truth?
I was already losing—me.
That's what many women do. We carry the weight of someone else's carelessness. We bury the pain under makeup and smiles. We pretend the silence isn't loud. We ignore the signs, hoping the story will change.
But it doesn't.
Love is not meant to be pain disguised as purpose. It's not meant to leave scars you have to explain to your mirror every morning.
The day I finally walked away from Mr. Wonder, I wasn't walking toward healing—I was limping.
The damage had already been done. And even though I left him, I couldn't leave the pain behind. It followed me like a shadow, whispering doubts in every quiet moment.
I carried it in my chest, in my steps, in the silence of nights when I should've been sleeping peacefully.
Mr. Wonder made me wonder about everything—especially my worth.
But with time, something amazing happened.
I began to remember who I was.
I remembered that I am not someone to be pitied, played, or passed over. I deserve love that doesn't come with conditions. I deserve respect, consistency, and peace.
Mr. Wonder was never wonderful.
He was just another man who didn't know what to do with a good woman.
And maybe... just maybe, that was his greatest loss—not mine.