I never believed in soulmates — until I met two of them.
My name is Harper, I’m 32 now. This happened between 2021 and 2023, the years that changed everything about how I understand love.
I met Liam first.
We matched on Hinge in early 2021, right when the world was starting to open up again. He was 29, a pediatric nurse — kind eyes, quiet laugh, the kind of guy who remembered how you take your coffee and always texted goodnight. Our first date was takeout tacos on a park bench because restaurants still felt risky. We talked for five hours. By the third date, I knew I was falling hard.
Liam was safe, steady, deeply good. He showed up — for my bad days, my family dinners, my 30th birthday when I cried about getting older. He met my parents, planned weekend hikes, talked openly about wanting marriage and kids someday. With him, love felt like coming home.
Six months in, I was all-in. I said “I love you” first. He said it back without hesitation.
Then Ellie came back into my life.
Ellie and I had been best friends in college — inseparable from freshman orientation. We lived together junior year, finished each other’s sentences, stayed up all night talking about dreams and fears. There was always this undercurrent — lingering hugs, jealous glances when the other dated someone, butterflies I wrote off as close friendship.
Senior year, Ellie confessed she had feelings for me. I panicked. I wasn’t ready to explore that part of myself. I told her I loved her as a friend, but not like that. She smiled through tears, said she understood, and transferred schools the next semester to “give us space.” We lost touch slowly — texts became occasional, then nothing.
I thought about her sometimes, wondered if I’d made a mistake, but life moved on.
In fall 2021, eight years later, I got a LinkedIn message: “Hey stranger. I’m moving back to Denver for work. Coffee?”
I said yes before I could overthink it.
Seeing Ellie again felt like time collapsing.
She was 30 now, a graphic designer, confident in a way she hadn’t been in college. Same wild curly hair, same infectious laugh. We met at our old campus café and talked for four hours. She’d dated women exclusively since college, lived in Portland, built a beautiful life. She never mentioned the confession.
We started hanging out regularly — as friends. Brunch, art galleries, hikes with my dog. Liam knew about her, encouraged it: “Old friends are important.” He even joined us a few times. Everyone got along.
But something shifted.
The butterflies came back. Stronger. I noticed how Ellie’s hand brushed mine when passing a menu. How she looked at me across a bonfire like I was the only person there. How my stomach flipped when she hugged me goodbye.
I told myself it was nostalgia.
Then one night in spring 2022, we were at my apartment watching old movies, wine flowing. Ellie paused the TV, looked at me, and said quietly, “I never stopped loving you. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. But it’s always been you.”
My heart stopped.
I didn’t say anything at first. Then I whispered, “I think I feel it too.”
We kissed.
It felt like fireworks and relief and terror all at once.
The guilt hit immediately.
I had Liam — wonderful, devoted Liam — sleeping at home thinking I was having a girls’ night.
But I couldn’t stop seeing Ellie.
For six months, I lived a double life.
Days with Liam: cozy dinners, planning a future, sex that felt loving and familiar.
Nights with Ellie: passion that felt electric, conversations that went until dawn, a connection that felt like finding a missing part of myself.
I was in love with both of them. Deeply. Differently. Completely.
Liam made me feel safe and seen. Ellie made me feel alive and understood on a soul level.
I kept waiting for the feeling to fade with one of them. It never did.
By winter 2022, both relationships deepened.
Liam started talking engagement rings. He showed me screenshots of ones he thought I’d like. Said he wanted to propose on our second anniversary.
Ellie said she’d never felt this way about anyone else. That she’d wait as long as I needed, but she couldn’t share me forever.
I was unraveling.
I tried to end it with Ellie twice. Both times, I cried in her arms and stayed.
I tried to pull away from Liam — made excuses, picked fights. He just held me tighter, asked how he could support me through my “stress.”
The truth was eating me alive.
In March 2023, everything collided.
Liam came home early from a shift and found a text from Ellie on my phone: “I miss you already. Last night was everything.”
He didn’t rage. He just sat on the couch, pale, and asked, “How long?”
I told him everything.
He cried — quiet, devastating tears. Asked if I loved her. I said yes. Asked if I still loved him. I said yes.
Then he asked the question that broke me:
“Choose.”
He said he wouldn’t share me. That he deserved someone who chose him fully. That if I picked Ellie, he’d let me go, but he couldn’t stay friends. He needed a clean break to heal.
Ellie gave me the same ultimatum days later: “I can’t be your secret anymore. I love you too much to watch you live half a life.”
I had to choose.
I spent weeks in agony. Therapy. Journaling. Long walks crying. Talking to one trusted friend who said, “You can’t make a wrong choice — only a painful one.”
I imagined life with Liam: stable, warm, predictable happiness. Kids, a house, growing old together.
I imagined life with Ellie: passion, adventure, finally embracing the part of myself I’d buried. A love that felt like destiny.
Both futures felt beautiful. Both losses felt unbearable.
In May 2023, I made the choice.
I chose Liam.
I told myself it was the “right” thing — he’d been there first, we had history, I couldn’t imagine hurting him more. Being with a woman still felt scary — coming out to family, navigating a new identity.
I ended things with Ellie in person. She cried, nodded, said she understood. We hugged for a long time. She moved to Seattle two months later.
Liam and I tried to rebuild.
But something was broken.
I was grieving Ellie constantly. I’d see curly hair in a crowd and feel my chest cave in. Songs we loved came on and I’d have to leave the room. Liam saw it. He tried to be patient, but the trust was cracked.
We lasted eight more months.
In January 2024, he proposed — on our original anniversary, like he’d planned. I said yes through tears.
Three months later, I gave the ring back.
I couldn’t marry him carrying this much pain. It wasn’t fair to either of us.
We ended quietly. He moved out. We don’t speak now.
I reached out to Ellie six months after the breakup. She’d started dating someone new. She wished me well, but said she couldn’t reopen that door.
I’m single now. Therapy every week. Learning to sit with regret.
I lost them both.
The impossible choice didn’t lead to happiness with one — it led to losing both and learning that love isn’t always enough when timing and courage fail you.
Sometimes the person you’re meant to be with arrives before you’re ready to be the person they need.
And no matter which path you take, part of your heart stays on the road not chosen.
TL;DR: Fell deeply in love with my steady, loving boyfriend and, simultaneously, my former best friend who confessed years earlier. For months I was torn between two soul-deep loves, until both gave me ultimatums to choose. I picked my boyfriend, ended things with my friend, but the grief and guilt destroyed that relationship too. In the end, I lost them both and learned the hardest lesson about timing, honesty, and impossible choices.
