I Didn't Know I Needed This

I Didn't Know I Needed This Plot Summary

Introduction

I still remember that rainy Tuesday evening when I sat alone in my apartment, scrolling mindlessly through dating apps. Another failed relationship had just ended, and I found myself wondering if I was the common denominator in all my romantic disappointments. The screen's blue light illuminated my tear-stained face as I swiped left and right, searching for connection in a digital sea of strangers. That night marked the beginning of my journey toward understanding that finding love isn't about discovering the perfect person, but about becoming the person I needed to be for myself first. The path to meaningful relationships is rarely straightforward. It winds through periods of solitude, digital connections, vulnerable conversations, and sometimes, heartbreaking goodbyes. Along the way, we learn that our relationship with ourselves forms the foundation for every other connection we make. Through personal stories and honest reflections, we'll explore how self-discovery becomes the compass that guides us through the complexities of modern dating, helping us build authentic relationships that honor who we truly are rather than who we think others want us to be.

Chapter 1: The Art of Being Alone: Learning Self-Worth

I took myself out on a date for the first time when I was twenty-two years old. I'd never been very good at being alone. If given the choice to eat alone, sleep alone, go to the gym alone, or to do each of those activities with someone else, I'd almost always choose the latter. Partnership—in a friend, a lover—was a safety blanket that protected me from the unruly beast I saw in myself. You would never willingly spend time with someone you don't like, and that's how it felt to live inside my skin—constantly spending time with someone I loathed. Wishing I was anywhere else. But a few months prior, hungover in the Chicago O'Hare airport, I decided I was sick of spending time with my worst enemy. I wanted to learn to view myself like a friend I was elated at having an afternoon with, uninterrupted. Self-loathing was tiring and dim. I wanted to fall in love with the person I saw in the mirror. Months later, in my bedroom half dressed, I noticed the fruits of my labor in my face—I looked soft and loved and pleased. I looked how I usually did in the few white hot moments stumbling home from some guy's apartment—validated. But I hadn't slept with anyone or gone on any dates. This was a glow that said I like the person that I am. I'd been working so hard on intentionally enjoying my time alone, on feeling desired and validated by myself, I decided that challenging myself to enjoy an evening out in my own company was the perfect final test. I put on a pair of soft gray jeans, a sweater, a jacket, a little makeup. I packed my tote bag—a book, a notebook, a pair of headphones, my wallet and keys, and lip gloss. The journey to self-love is lengthy and often difficult and it plants little seeds inside of you along the way. I read books I wanted to read, I cried, I tried things I'd always wanted to try, and I only did things because I wanted or needed to do them. I didn't date anyone seriously. I walked foreign roads, and I attempted things that scared the shit out of me. I dressed for me, ran for me, cooked for me, and prominently posted fearlessly on social media not so that anyone else would perceive me, but so I could finally perceive myself. Eventually the seeds sprouted tiny buds and then I looked down at the garden after a few months and it was vibrant and colorful and healthy and it was, importantly, self-made. The journey toward self-love begins with these small acts of courage—choosing ourselves even when it feels uncomfortable. When we learn to enjoy our own company, we stop seeking validation from others and start recognizing our inherent worth. Only then can we enter relationships not from a place of need, but from a place of wholeness.

Chapter 2: Dating App Dilemmas: Navigating Digital Romance

When I was in seventh grade my mom took my brothers, me, and a friend to Atlantic City for the weekend. We stayed in the Borgata Hotel and swam in the pool and ate at Hibachi. Though I can't remember why we were there, I do remember us traversing the corners of the casino area of the hotel wearing bathing suits and flip-flops at nine a.m., and my mom commenting that most of the bug-eyed gamblers sitting (or sleeping) next to half-drunk martinis in plastic cups had been there all night. The only time I ever felt like one of those bug-eyed gamblers was when I dipped a toe into the world of dating apps and realized that, much like gambling, swiping on a dating app could be, and was, incredibly addictive. And if you play your cards right, you could theoretically come out a big winner. But usually, as the gamble goes, you just lose and end up in bed with a pint of ice cream. Dating apps are a gamble—some people hate them, some people love them, some people travel all the way to Vegas just to see it all through. I was a Hinge addict, and I loved it. I loved the swiping, the gratification, the game, and the gamble of it all. The way it felt to move things from the app to texting or Instagram DM, or even a first date. I liked being anonymous to people—a stranger—someone who they had no previous knowledge or perception of. It made me feel like I could be whoever I wanted to be. Human beings are wired to crave some sort of connection. Think of the way you feel when you see your crush from across the room: you start sweating, your heart races, you feel nervous or giddy. Not to get scientific on you, but that's chemical. Some form of love. Dating apps were the exact cocktail I thought I needed—affirmation, validation, human connection, and the potential to find someone who knows nothing about you. I didn't want someone to know the real me, anyway; I wanted them to know my profile. And a dating app gave me that ability. There are both benefits and drawbacks to online dating. For me, a drawback was centering online dating as a way to derive confidence—based on the external comments of strangers. What I'm trying to tell you is that not every first kiss is a fireworks display. Not every second date is red fish telling you that you'll fall in love. Sometimes it's cheese and Two-Buck Chuck and a good kiss in a kitchen and walking the aisles of Rite Aid. And sometimes that's better than the running through the rain, imagining each other in bed, butterflies, and high-stakes second dates of my past. Sometimes something just feels safe. And it gradually becomes more than safe. It grows into something wonderful and strong. The digital landscape of dating has transformed how we meet potential partners, but the fundamentals remain unchanged—we're all seeking genuine connection beneath the swipes and algorithms, hoping to find someone who sees us for who we truly are.

Chapter 3: From Flirting to Connection: Building Authentic Relationships

My first college class freshman year was called Introduction to Drama. It was located in a dark, windowless basement classroom in the drama building, and the vast majority of students in the class were theater majors. I was so nervous for the first class of my undergraduate education that I got up three hours early to get ready. I brushed through my long hair, haphazardly put on an eclectic mix of drugstore makeup, picked out my favorite jeans and white floral cropped blouse, and upon reflection, the ugliest J.Crew sandals I have ever owned. Ezra was a lanky sophomore with dark hair and glasses, wearing a T-shirt with his fraternity on it (red flag), which was a grouping of three words I'd grow all too familiar with in the coming year. He was a math student who did improv comedy (another red flag) and my first impression of him was nothing sensational. I will not pay many compliments to Ezra. However, I will give him this: he was excellent at flirting. I'll never forget noticing him looking at me from across the oval wooden table, the way it felt to have a stranger's eyes on me—the way it felt to feel wanted. As class was dismissed, I packed up my things and beelined to the elevator, too insecure to make small talk with my new classmates. As I waited for the elevator and pretended to be engrossed by something on my phone, I felt someone come up behind me. It was the seemingly unremarkable improv comedy engineer whose name had slipped me. "You're Eli, right?" he asked. These three words were the beginning of the most disastrous, unorganized, clumsy relationship of my life. He introduced himself and instantly began asking me questions, giving constant eye contact, and using future-leaning statements, suggesting I'd have to come by a fraternity party sometime, or that he looked forward to seeing me that Wednesday, at our next drama class. Our short exchange of words, just that brief interaction, made me feel somehow special, like he'd lit a spark somewhere inside me. Like I was a candle and he was the only person in the world, or in Michigan, with a match. He looked at me when he spoke like he was anticipating my every word. He smiled in a way that seemed welcoming but mysterious. He'd boldly approached me, a stranger, and made me feel wanted. The cardinal rule of flirting: it is supposed to be fun. This isn't supposed to be anxiety inducing or stressful, and if it is, you have to change your mindset around it. The stakes are incredibly low when we flirt: either someone is going to think you're trying to let them know you're interested, or they're going to think you're super nice and friendly, because when we flirt in waves, we ensure that we don't embarrass ourselves. Moving from flirtation to genuine connection requires vulnerability and authenticity. While the initial spark of attraction may draw us together, it's the willingness to show our true selves—imperfections and all—that creates the foundation for meaningful relationships. The most beautiful connections form when we stop performing and start being real with one another.

Chapter 4: Setting Boundaries: The Power of Saying No

It was noon in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and I was lying on my bed wearing an oversize Columbia Journalism School sweatshirt. I found out that I'd been accepted a few days before and overnighted the sweatshirt out of pure excitement. Gemini Boy—guy I'd been seeing—asked me to come over and bake chocolate chip cookies with him. I was so elated that he wanted to spend time with me during the day that I decided to not remind him that I was allergic to gluten. By March 15, 2020, a cloud hung low over our sweet college town where that kinetic energy should've been. The first cases of COVID-19 in Michigan had just been recorded on the tenth. Our classes had been made virtual through the end of the semester. Our graduation ceremony had been canceled. They didn't tell us much else because nobody knew much else. Forthcoming was a series of emails from our university president urging and then begging us to head home if we were able. I stood next to Gemini Boy in his kitchen. His roommates played video games on the couch. They were pretty familiar to me, as I'd been frequenting their apartment on sporadic evenings since January. Gemini Boy loved to cook. When we got home from the bar at 1:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, he'd make four grilled cheese sandwiches with one hand, and smoke from a bong with the other. He was always using artisan cheeses. He was your typical frat boy, but with quirks that I was infatuated by—one of them being the cooking. Call it messed up that I found it charming that a college-age boy cooked grilled cheese sandwiches, but I did. We weren't in any kind of a relationship. We were "exclusively hooking up"—or so I'd been told by him. The definition of "exclusively hooking up" in this context means that you are only hooking up with each other. This doesn't mean you're dating. It doesn't mean you cannot go on other dates, or flirt with other people or consider them as options. It just means that, until someone decides otherwise, you're only being physically intimate with each other. Modern-day dating vernacular is horrifically confusing, but I'll do my best to define it as I understand it. Exclusive: exclusively seeing each other, but without the boyfriend-girlfriend, girlfriend-girlfriend, partner, or otherwise serious label. Being "exclusive" typically comes before you take the leap into a full-blown relationship. Supposedly, exclusivity is like a relationship trial run. Exclusively hooking up: exclusively physical with one person, but that doesn't mean you're going to be in a relationship with them or are even heading in that direction. Setting boundaries in relationships isn't about building walls—it's about creating clarity and respect. When we fail to communicate our needs and limits, we often find ourselves in situations that compromise our well-being. The power of saying "no" lies in its ability to protect our physical and emotional health while also defining what we truly want from our connections. Learning to establish and maintain boundaries is perhaps the most essential skill in building healthy relationships, as it ensures that we remain true to ourselves even as we open our hearts to others.

Chapter 5: Healing Through Heartbreak: Finding Your Way Back

Losing my virginity was the most anticlimactic thing that has ever happened to me while naked. It was December 2015 and he was my high school boyfriend. We never had the boyfriend and girlfriend label, and ended things before senior prom, but someone told me he was referring to me as his "ex-girlfriend" when he got to college, so I've decided to accept the title we never formally placed on our relationship. On the day it happened, I was so nervous I remember trying to stop my hands from shaking on the drive over, my sweaty palms gripping the steering wheel of the white Jeep Wrangler as I put the car in park. We weren't in love. We were pretending to watch That '70s Show. He made me feel comfortable and never pressured me into anything. He asked me over and over if I was okay, which I appreciated. I'm pretty sure that I lost my virginity in cowgirl... à la Lady Bird... apropos of a future dating and sex writer. I don't know who the hell loses their virginity in cowgirl but add me to the list. We were on a basement couch of faded canvas plaid. Scratch that, it was a reclining armchair. I'm pretty sure we could hear his parents' footsteps in the kitchen upstairs the whole time. I made him fill the condom with water after to make sure it hadn't broken. I drove home with my sweater inside out. I was so paranoid the next day that I drove four towns over, went to a CVS, and took Plan B in the parking lot, blasting the original cast recording of Evita at full volume all the while, which in hindsight is likely an indication that I wasn't ready to be having sex at all if I thought a condom plus the pullout method required the additional usage of Plan B. My entrance into the world of sex was not romantic, it was not special. It was simple, comfortable, and quiet, which is honestly exactly how I'd want it to be if I could do it over again. I don't regret a minute of it, and I never have. For that, I'm sure, I'm one of the lucky ones. The expectation of a first time winds up harming us when we don't meet the high standard we yearn for. In fairy tales and romantic comedies and smutty beach reads, virginity is a passionate, moonlit, crazed extravaganza—he has a six-pack, your hair looks perfectly soft, you both finish together, and then you lie on the floor and say something melodramatic afterward like "This was perfect, I love you." Then he proposes, and even though everyone else in the world has credit card debt and six roommates, we latch on to the idea that losing our virginity could be that flawless. Heartbreak, whether from romantic disappointment or shattered expectations, is one of life's most universal experiences. The path through grief isn't about forgetting or erasing the pain—it's about integrating it into our story and allowing it to transform us. When we honor our heartbreak rather than rushing to escape it, we discover resilience we never knew we possessed. Each disappointment becomes not just a wound but a teacher, showing us what we truly need and guiding us toward connections that align with our authentic selves. The journey back to wholeness isn't about returning to who we were before the heartbreak, but becoming someone stronger, wiser, and more compassionate because of it.

Chapter 6: Friend Love: The Foundation of All Relationships

There was nothing wrong with our first two dates. We went to dinner near the beach for the first one. It was a nice night until it started to pour rain and we ran back to his car and got soaking wet. In the right circumstances, this would've been romantic. Idyllic almost. I think I had salmon. I know I wore a jean skirt. It felt sexy and cool and mature for someone to pick me up for a date, even if it was in his beat-up silver Toyota Camry. He was from my hometown, but we'd never met, nor had we gone to the same school. He became Hometown Boy. It felt straight out of a Nicholas Sparks film. I imagined a white picket fence. A dog. Three kids with blond hair. Things I didn't even think I wanted, but figured I'd settle for if it meant I could be loved. Throughout my first two dates with Hometown Boy there weren't any red flags. No glaring discomfort. We kissed and it was fine. It was almost good, even. He was a good conversationalist. Seemed ambitious, driven. He was tall and had shaggy dirty blond hair. He complimented me. I could tell he was one of those kids that adults would've called a "good kid" when he was twelve years old. On our second date we went to a Trader Joe's and bought a bunch of snacks and sat on a picnic blanket in a park and talked. Then he took me to meet his dog. As I stood in Hometown Boy's kitchen, my phone buzzed with Snapchat notifications from a person I had fallen for a few months before. The boy on my phone didn't have any plans to fall for me, and I knew this, but with each flash of his name on my home screen, my heart twirled with suspicion and longing in my chest. Hometown Boy didn't make me feel that way, and I wished he did. If I'd spent the same day with the other boy, I would've been in heaven. But being with Hometown Boy just didn't feel right. I wish someone had told me sooner: it's better to go to bed alone, laptop on my stomach, watching Glee, than with someone just to be with someone. I'd rather read my books and make my breakfast and take my walks than spend time with someone just because they're not bad. I'd rather go to bed alone than be with someone who wasn't right for me. This wasn't the first time I'd tried to convince myself to keep seeing someone because he was a good person, even if I wasn't interested in him at all. The love we share with friends often provides the blueprint for all other relationships in our lives. These connections teach us how to communicate, compromise, support, and celebrate one another without the complications of romantic entanglement. Our friendships show us what unconditional love looks like in practice—loving someone not for what they can give us or how they make us feel, but simply for who they are. When we recognize the profound importance of these platonic bonds, we create a foundation that strengthens every relationship we build. The warmth, honesty, and acceptance we experience in true friendship becomes the standard against which we measure all connections, reminding us never to settle for less in any relationship.

Chapter 7: Becoming Your Own Priority: Honoring Your Life

I took myself out on a date for the first time when I was twenty-two years old. I'd never been very good at being alone. If given the choice to eat alone, sleep alone, go to the gym alone, or to do each of those activities with someone else, I'd almost always choose the latter. Partnership—in a friend, a lover—was a safety blanket that protected me from the unruly beast I saw in myself. You would never willingly spend time with someone you don't like, and that's how it felt to live inside my skin—constantly spending time with someone I loathed. Wishing I was anywhere else. But a few months prior, hungover in the Chicago O'Hare airport, I decided I was sick of spending time with my worst enemy. I wanted to learn to view myself like a friend I was elated at having an afternoon with, uninterrupted. Self-loathing was tiring and dim. I wanted to fall in love with the person I saw in the mirror, the person I always found a way to be too busy for. Months later, in my bedroom half dressed, I noticed the fruits of my labor in my face—I looked soft and loved and pleased. I looked how I usually did in the few white hot moments stumbling home from some guy's apartment—validated. But I hadn't slept with anyone or gone on any dates. This was a glow that said I like the person that I am. I'd been working so hard on intentionally enjoying my time alone, on feeling desired and validated by myself, I decided that challenging myself to enjoy an evening out in my own company was the perfect final test. I put on a pair of soft gray jeans, a sweater, a jacket, a little makeup. I packed my tote bag—a book, a notebook, a pair of headphones, my wallet and keys, and lip gloss. The journey to self-love is lengthy and often difficult and it plants little seeds inside of you along the way. I read books I wanted to read, I cried, I tried things I'd always wanted to try, and I only did things because I wanted or needed to do them. I didn't date anyone seriously. I walked foreign roads, and I attempted things that scared the shit out of me. I dressed for me, ran for me, cooked for me, and prominently posted fearlessly on social media not so that anyone else would perceive me, but so I could finally perceive myself. Eventually the seeds sprouted tiny buds and then I looked down at the garden after a few months and it was vibrant and colorful and healthy and it was, importantly, self-made. Becoming your own priority isn't selfish—it's necessary for creating a life that feels authentic and fulfilling. When we honor ourselves by making choices that align with our values, needs, and desires, we cultivate a sense of wholeness that no external relationship can provide. This self-honoring approach transforms how we move through the world, allowing us to enter relationships from a place of abundance rather than lack. The greatest love story we'll ever experience begins when we fall in love with our own lives, embracing both our light and shadow with equal compassion.

Summary

The journey to finding love through self-discovery is perhaps the most important voyage we'll ever undertake. Throughout these chapters, we've witnessed how learning to be alone creates the foundation for meaningful connection, how navigating digital romance requires both courage and discernment, and how building authentic relationships depends on our ability to communicate honestly and set healthy boundaries. We've explored the transformative power of heartbreak, the essential role of friendship in our lives, and ultimately, the profound importance of becoming our own priority. The most beautiful revelation in this exploration is that love isn't something we find outside ourselves—it's something we cultivate within and then share with others. When we honor our own lives—our desires, boundaries, and authentic selves—we create the conditions for genuine connection to flourish. The heart battles we face aren't obstacles to overcome but opportunities to grow, teaching us that true love begins with self-acceptance and extends outward to embrace others not from a place of need but from a place of wholeness. By prioritizing our relationship with ourselves, we don't become selfish; we become capable of offering others the most authentic version of our love—a gift more precious than any we could receive in return.

About Author

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Eli Rallo

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