Modern Love Files: He loved me in his way - but I needed more
A modern Black relationship story about love, silence, and the emotional labor of trying to stay connected.
MODERN LOVE FILES: HE LOVED ME IN HIS WAY — BUT I NEEDED MORE
A STORY ABOUT CHRISTIAN AND FELICIA 17 MAY 2025
WELCOME TEN
WELCOME TO IN10MACY.
THIS IS A STORY EXPLORING YOUNG LOVE BETWEEN CHRISTIAN AND FELICIA —
YOUNG, MODERN LOVE.
BUT WHEN LOVE ISN'T ENOUGH,
CAN THEY LEARN WHAT IT REALLY TAKES?
A RAW, INTIMATE BLACK LOVE STORY ABOUT LEARNING HOW TO LOVE SOMEONE—
NOT JUST DEEPLY,
BUT IN A TEN WAY.
FOLLOW CHRISTIAN AND FELICIA AS THEY NAVIGATE DESIRE, DISTANCE,
AND THE EMOTIONAL GAP BETWEEN THEM.
IF YOU ENJOY RELATIONSHIP FICTION, BLACK LOVE STORIES, and EMOTIONAL ROMANTIC DRAMA —
YOU'RE IN THE RIGHT PLACE.
ONLY ON IN10MACY.
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HE LOVED ME IN HIS WAY — BUT I NEEDED MORE.
I USED TO THINK LOVE WAS SHOWING UP. NOW I WONDER IF IT’S KNOWING HOW TO STAY.
CHRISTIAN?
Yeah… he showed up. Every time.Hoodie on, gold chain tucked, always smelled like cologne and effort.
He said the right things — when he remembered.
Held me down — when he had time.
And I convinced myself that was enough.
That presence meant partnership
But presence can be real quiet when it’s not doing the work.
It’s funny how someone can be in your space…
and still not be in your heart.
Not all the way.
He told me he was tired. Just like that.
No story. No follow-up. Just:
“I’M TIRED.”
And I said “okay,”
because I’ve learned that pushing past his silence
feels like fighting a ghost.
You swing,
you swing,
and nothing ever hits back.
He might love me…
or maybe he just loves how I make him feel —
safe,wanted,soft.
But me?
I want that old school love.
The call-you-back love.
The remember-what-you-said love.
The love that sees past your body
and into your being.
This ain’t a breakup story.
Not yet.
It’s more like…
a slow realization.
That maybe love isn’t just about feeling something for somebody —
It’s about knowing what to do with those feelings.
Knowing how to hold someone without hurting them.
And knowing when you’re not ready to do either.
This is what young, modern Black love really looks like.
It’s not always loud.
Sometimes it fades in silence.
But that silence?
IT SAYS EVERYTHING.
WHY WE LOVE THE WAY WE DO?
He’s not cold.
Not mean.
Just... quiet.
Like life taught him early that saying too much might cost him something.
I used to think he was mysterious — like, deep-type mysterious.
Turns out, it was just emotional muscle memory.
Christian’s never had a front row seat to love.
He was raised by his pops — just the two of them
in a small apartment with basketball posters, protein powder,
and sports talk shows playing in the background like white noise.
His dad loved him. No question.
Showed up to every game.
Taught him how to shave.
Gave him that old
“FOCUS ON YOUR GOALS. WOMEN COME LATER.”
speech when he turned fifteen.
But talking?
Feelings?
Intimacy that didn’t start and stop at loyalty or protection?
Nah. That wasn’t in the playbook.
He told me once — real casual,
like he was talking about the weather:
“My dad never said ‘I love you.’ Not even once.
But I know he do.
He always made sure we had what we needed.”
I nodded.
But I wanted to cry.
Not for me.
For him.
For the little boy who learned that showing up with groceries
was the same as showing up with affection.
Me?
I grew up on the kind of love that leaves notes on the fridge.
My parents?
Those “high school sweethearts who actually made it” types.
Twenty-six years, still flirtin’.
Still slow dancing in the kitchen on Sunday mornings
when the pancakes are on low
and Frankie Beverly’s playing too loud.
They fight, sure.
But they talk.
They laugh.
My dad kisses my mom on the forehead
every time he walks past her —
even when he’s annoyed.
That’s what I saw growing up.
That’s what I thought love was supposed to look like.
Soft. Present. Loud in the quiet moments.
So yeah... I want that.
I don’t blame Christian for the way he loves me.
I just...
I’m learning that loving someone
doesn’t mean you’ll feel loved by them.
Not in the way you need.
Because when you’ve only ever known survival,
love can look like silence and sacrifices.
And when you’ve grown up on soul and softness,
love feels like conversation and connection.
We’re not wrong.
We’re just different.
But “different” doesn’t feel good
at 1:07 a.m.,
when you’re curled up next to someone
who hasn’t asked about your day.
WE KEEP MISSING EACHOTHER — EVEN WHEN WE’RE IN THE SAME ROOM
He took me out that night —
wings, the Lakers game,
and a backseat freestyle on the way home
like everything was fine.
Like I hadn’t been folding myself smaller
just to fit inside his version of love.
We got to his place.
He dropped his keys on the counter,
rolled up,
and sat on the couch
like routine was enough to hold us together.
I sat on the floor between his legs,
trying to remember the last time
he asked me something that wasn’t surface —
something that didn’t end in sex or silence.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I lied.
He brushed his fingers down my back
like it was affection,
but it felt like autopilot.
I tilted my head back,
looked up at him.
“Do you ever think about us?”
He blinked,
then smirked
like I was overthinking.
Like love was supposed to be light and easy
if it was real.
“What you mean?”
“Like… what are we really doing?”
He took a deep breath
and leaned back.
That exhale —
I knew it too well.
It was his way of saying:
“Here she go again.”
“I show you how I feel every day, Fee.”
“You do things,” I said.
“But doing and feeling? They’re not the same.”
His jaw flexed.
Not angry.
Just… stuck.
“You make sure I’m fed,
you give rides,
you hold me down.
But half the time,
I feel like I’m dating your habits,
not your heart.”
That landed.
He stared at me like I’d just flipped a table.
And I wanted him to fight for it —
to say something that proved me wrong.
But instead,
he gave me a half-nod
and that quiet voice he uses
when he wants to avoid the full weight of a conversation.
“I ain’t used to all that extra emotional shit, Fee.
My dad never really talked like that either.”
I sat with that.
Because I knew.
I knew he wasn’t trying to hurt me.
I knew his father raised him on hustle and silence.
I knew nobody ever taught him
how to love out loud.
But damn,
I’m not a rehab center.
I’m not here
to translate love
through broken communication.
“You think just being here is enough.
But showing up and staying
ain’t the same
if your heart’s not in the room.”
“You act like I don’t care,” he said,
his voice lower now.
“I’m trying the best I can.”
“And I’m tired
of loving you
through what you lack.”
There it was.
The quiet truth
I’d been folding into my pillow
for weeks.
“If I have to teach you
how to love me from scratch,”
I said, standing up slow,
“I’m not your girlfriend.
I’m your growth curve.”
He didn’t move.
Didn’t chase.
Just sat there,
stuck between ego and effort.
We didn’t fight.
We just fell silent.
And that silence?
It wasn’t empty.
It was full of everything
he didn’t say —
and everything
I was done begging for.
This Is What Letting Go Without Leaving Looks Like
We didn’t talk for two days.
Not because we were mad,
but because silence felt safer than honesty.
And maybe that’s the saddest kind of distance —
when you’re still in each other’s orbit,
but afraid to speak in full sentences.
He texted me around midnight on the third night.
“You good?”
And I stared at that message like it was a riddle.
Am I?
I typed out
“yeah,”
then deleted it.
Typed
“not really,”
then deleted that too.
I sat with it.
Let the screen go black.
Let the answer hang in the air between us —
unspoken,
like most of the things I needed.
The thing is…
I didn’t leave.
Not that night.
Not the next.
Because sometimes
walking away isn’t a clean break —
sometimes it’s just learning to carry your love
with less weight.
Less hope.
And I loved him.
I still do.
But I stopped expecting softness
from someone who was raised to survive.
I stopped waiting for the right words
from a man who was taught
that silence was strength.
And maybe
that’s what letting go without leaving looks like.
Staying, but not shrinking.
Loving, but not bleeding for it.
Speaking, even when I know
he might not fully hear me.
We still lay in the same bed.
But now,
I face the window.
And in the dark,
with his arm draped over me like muscle memory,
I wonder if love will ever feel like something
I can rest inside.
Because this?
This is still love.
But not the kind that fills you.
Just the kind that lingers.
EVERY LOVE STORY DESERVES TO BE TOLD FROM BOTH SIDES
We told this story through Felicia’s eyes —
through the ache of a woman who knows what love looks like
because she’s seen it,
felt it,
needed it.
A woman trying to love someone
who was never taught how to love back.
But this?
This isn’t the full story.
Because love doesn’t live in one perspective.
And if you’ve been reading closely,
you’ve probably been wondering:
What does Christian feel?
What’s going on in his head when he says “I’m tired”?
Does he even know what he’s losing?
The next chapter is his.
His silence.
His struggle.
His softness — if he can find it.
And trust —
you’re going to want to hear
what he doesn’t say out loud.
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deserves to be told from both sides.
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by yours truly —
THE HOOD AUTHOR, MR.10:
📖 Father, I Have a Question — A life without intimacy. 🖤
📖 Father, I Have a Question II — A life with IN10MACY. 💜
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