I Am With You. I Am Not Like You.

Feb 12
2 min read

7:08

She said it like it was a boundary.

“I’m with you. I never said I’m like you.”

Then she stood up and went to the restroom.

He looked at me, not for advice, but for permission to be offended.

That’s what men do when their ego gets scratched. They scan the room like someone might hand them a manual titled: How To React Without Looking Small.

He expected judgment, nod, some silent confirmation that he was right.

I lifted my glass. “That’s feeling, and love is a feeling too.”

He didn’t expect philosophy; he wanted strategy.

But there is no strategy in love — especially the kind that happens over a Negroni — It’s about choosing to stay close without trying to edit one another.

Her Negroni was still sitting there, untouched. Equal parts gin, Campari, vermouth — a drink that only works because the ingredients refuse to imitate each other. Gin doesn’t try to become Campari. Campari doesn’t dilute itself to be vermouth. They coexist, bitter, sweet, sharp, soft, together, as a secret.

She returned to the table as Nina Simone’s Love Somebody filled the room, nothing accidental about that timing.

She didn’t sit close this time, he shifted in his chair like a man who just realized love isn’t possession — It’s choosing someone who doesn’t belong to you. They were sitting close enough to touch and far enough to remain interesting.

She reached for his glass.

Took a sip of his Negroni without asking.

Sharing bitterness voluntarily.

He laughed, finally.

“You always do that,” he said.

“And you always care,” she replied.

There it was, the dance.

Finding someone who can sit across from you — fully themselves — and still choose to stay…That’s love, too.

“I’m with you,” she had said.

Not owned, not reshaped, just with. The bravest word we have, with.

Later that night, they left holding hands.

They didn’t agree on everything. Being mirrored is boring.

I finished my Negroni alone, thinking about chemistry, and chemistry has always been about contrast.

Bitter. Sweet. Fire. Balance.

If you want someone exactly like you, date a mirror.

Happy Valentine’s.

I Am With You. I Am Not Like You.

She said it like it was a boundary.

“I’m with you. I never said I’m like you.”

Then she stood up and went to the restroom.

He looked at me, not for advice, but for permission to be offended.

That’s what men do when their ego gets scratched. They scan the room like someone might hand them a manual titled: How To React Without Looking Small.

He expected judgment, nod, some silent confirmation that he was right.

I lifted my glass. “That’s feeling, and love is a feeling too.”

He didn’t expect philosophy; he wanted strategy.

But there is no strategy in love — especially the kind that happens over a Negroni — It’s about choosing to stay close without trying to edit one another.

She returned to the table as Nina Simone’s Love Somebody filled the room, nothing accidental about that timing.

She didn’t sit close this time, he shifted in his chair like a man who just realized love isn’t possession — It’s choosing someone who doesn’t belong to you. They were sitting close enough to touch and far enough to remain interesting.

She reached for his glass.

Took a sip of his Negroni without asking.

Sharing bitterness voluntarily.

He laughed, finally.

“You always do that,” he said.

“And you always care,” she replied.

There it was, the dance.

Finding someone who can sit across from you — fully themselves — and still choose to stay…That’s love, too.

“I’m with you,” she had said.

Not owned, not reshaped, just with. The bravest word we have, with.

Later that night, they left holding hands.

They didn’t agree on everything. Being mirrored is boring.

I finished my Negroni alone, thinking about chemistry, and chemistry has always been about contrast.

Bitter. Sweet. Fire. Balance.

If you want someone exactly like you, date a mirror.

Happy Valentine’s.

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