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I am 21 years old, I already have a good job, I have a good personal life. I have been living with my boyfriend for a year and seven or eight months, not that important. I know his parents, he knows mine. My mom is crazy about him. He is decent, well-mannered, straight, funny, sociable. All in all, the whole package. He helps me, he doesn’t screw up cooking, he earns money. What else can I say – a dream. I am a Muslim, but without fanaticism: I dress as I want, wear makeup, I know no bans in anything, and his parents accepted me.

There is one “but”: I do not see from him the emotion of admiration and other nice nonsense. They say you have to believe the deeds, not the words, so there are beautiful male deeds, but I do not have enough words of tenderness. I must be silly.

There is one “but”: I do not see from him the emotion of admiration and other nice nonsense. They say you have to believe the deeds, not the words, so there are beautiful male deeds, but I do not have enough words of tenderness. I must be silly.

And then one day I got him (to be honest, not the first time, and my character is disgusting, but he put up with me). He went away to a friend’s house without telling me. I broke all the dishes, and left with a song in the night to nowhere (I live in this city for only 3 years, somehow not acquired friends, still a family like, live once together, work constantly – there was no time, in general). And so I go, so, through town, a car stops and pops out of there my old friend (the first person with whom I communicated in this city, then I started living in a relationship and cut off the ends), and with this friend’s brother, with whom we were connected for a while so to speak warmer relations than friendly. It turns out that his old feelings (which I assumed were not there) came flooding back on him. The bouquet of flowers, the attention, the words that I had missed so much – in general, I floated. Like a fool, like a foolish child. But I kept it together.

We sat on the bench, chatted (no intimacy, kissing, etc.) with him, and I went home. He was a little bit more than a little bit more than a little bit more than a little bit more than a little bit. And in my ears are still all his words about the mountain of gold. I understand that all of this is a lie and that he is a total jerk, and the women naked every night on the roof of the car, and smokes all kinds of trash and in general a mama’s boy in fact. All in all, a disgusting character. But I am so attracted to him, no, not physically. Morally. I heard from him: “It’s not your life with him, I know you, you’re just as crazy as me.”

And everything collapsed. I was trying so hard to convince myself that I was so nice and homely and that my man was the best. And now I can not understand: is it a longing for affectionate words, or I live “not my” man, and my type is just such scumbags, whose words can not be trusted. Or is it fate, or my stupidity?

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