I was in a pub chatting with a friend when a guy sat next to me. He said, “Before you get your hopes up, I have a girlfriend.” I looked at him, smiled, and said, “Before you get your hopes up, I have a whole life you don’t know about.”

He laughed, a little caught off guard. I could see he wasn’t expecting that. Most people just blush or scoff and turn away. But I wasn’t in the mood to be flirted with, much less warned. I had just come off one of the roughest months of my life, and all I wanted was a cold pint, some fries, and a few decent laughs with my friend Meera.

He didn’t leave though. His name was Ozan. Turkish, born in Berlin, now working in Birmingham. Something in tech, something with crypto. He had that look—smartwatch, casual blazer, shoes way too clean for this place.

Meera glanced at me with raised brows. She saw what I saw: this guy was used to getting attention. But I wasn’t biting.

“So, what do you have, then?” he asked, still smiling.

“A full-time job, a cat with asthma, and a landlord who thinks hot water is a luxury,” I said. “Also, three brothers who think they can manage my love life better than I can.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough.”

He stayed for a bit, talked more to Meera than me, which was fine. I was honestly tired. I had just moved back to Birmingham after seven years in Manchester, after what you could call a life detour.

I hadn’t told many people the real reason I moved. On paper, I’d say it was “for work” or “to be closer to family.” Both half-truths. The real reason? I got dumped.

Not just any breakup. I was engaged. House hunting. Two years in. One morning, my fiancé, Rami, said over breakfast, “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

“This” being… me? Us? The wedding? He didn’t really clarify. Just packed a bag, said he’d call. He didn’t.

So yeah, I wasn’t trying to chat with charming tech bros in bars. I was trying to rebuild my sense of direction.

But Ozan kept popping up. First in that bar—The Thistle and Pike. Then, a week later, at my gym. Not even kidding. He walked past me in the weights section, did a double take, then said, “Hey, Asthma Cat Girl.”

I rolled my eyes but laughed. “Still got a girlfriend?”

“She dumped me last night.”

That threw me. He said it so matter-of-factly, like he was commenting on the weather.

“Sorry,” I said, unsure if he was joking.

He shrugged. “Better now than later.”

After that, we became something. Friends? Workout buddies? Occasional late-night text sharers? We had this strange, almost film-like rhythm. We’d run into each other, talk too long, say we should hang out, then not make plans. But I liked it. It was low pressure.

Then one day, I invited him over. Nothing big—just a random Wednesday, I made pasta, we opened a bottle of wine, and watched a terrible movie. Halfway through, he asked, “Why did you really move back?”

I froze for a second. My mouth wanted to say the rehearsed line. But something in his face made me tell the truth.

“Got dumped. Wedding was three months away. He bailed. I panicked. Came home.”

Ozan didn’t say anything right away. He just reached for my wine glass, topped it off, and handed it back.

“His loss,” he said quietly.

Now, here’s where it started getting tricky.

I began to like him. Not just like-like. Like, I could picture making tea for him in the mornings, laughing about the news, texting him dumb photos of my cat.

And I thought he felt the same.

Until the wedding invitation arrived.

It was Meera who handed it to me, while we were having lunch.

“Why am I getting a wedding invite?” I asked, squinting at the gold envelope.

She looked at me cautiously. “Not you. Ozan. It got sent to my place by mistake. He must’ve used my address once.”

She slid it across the table. I opened it.

Ozan Deniz & Leila Farouk

What?

My throat closed up a bit. I blinked at the card. The same Ozan. But marrying someone else.

I stared at Meera. “You knew?”

“I just found out yesterday,” she said. “He said it was complicated.”

Complicated?

I walked out of that cafe so fast, I forgot my tote. I didn’t answer his texts. Didn’t open his messages.

A week later, he showed up outside my building.

“I didn’t lie,” he said. “We were off and on for years. She wanted a break. That night I met you? We were technically broken up.”

“Technically,” I repeated.

He stepped closer. “I didn’t plan any of this. I didn’t expect to like you.”

“Well, congratulations,” I said. “You’re getting married.”

He stood there for a long time after I shut the door.

That could’ve been the end of it. But life’s not that neat.

Two months later, my brother Ziad got married. I was a bridesmaid. It was a big Lebanese wedding, 200 people, loud dancing, non-stop food. At the reception, someone tapped my shoulder.

It was Leila. The fiancée.

My stomach flipped. She looked… calm. Not angry. Not confrontational.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

I nodded. We walked outside, into the hotel garden. She looked around, then straight at me.

“I’m not marrying him,” she said.

“What?”

“I called it off. A week ago. I found your messages.”

My heart sank. “We didn’t… I didn’t sleep with him. We barely—”

“I know,” she said. “But the way he talked to you? I could tell he was never fully with me.”

I didn’t know what to say. I felt guilty. Even if I hadn’t done anything technically wrong, I’d caught feelings. I’d let them grow.

“I just wanted you to know,” she said. “You weren’t the other woman. You were the truth.”

That line haunted me.

Three months passed. I didn’t hear from either of them. I focused on work, tried yoga (hated it), helped my mom fix her kitchen.

Then in June, I saw Ozan again. Not in person—on a billboard. He was part of a new ad campaign for a tech startup. Smiling, holding a phone.

Something about that photo made me feel… lighter. Like maybe that chapter was officially closed.

A few weeks later, I was walking through Cannon Hill Park, headphones in, when someone tapped my shoulder.

Ozan.

Of course.

He looked different. Beard a bit longer, heavier eyes.

“Can I walk with you?” he asked.

I nodded.

We walked for ten minutes in silence. Then he said, “I lost everything. Not just her. My job. Investors pulled out. The company folded.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “I deserved some of it. Maybe all of it.”

I didn’t argue.

“I still think about you,” he said. “Not because I want something. Just… you made me think about the kind of man I pretend to be.”

That hit me harder than it should’ve.

He didn’t ask for my number. Didn’t suggest coffee. He just gave me a sad smile and said, “Take care, Asthma Cat Girl.”

That was the last time I saw him.

A year later, I met someone else.

Not at a bar. Not on an app. At a used bookstore. He accidentally grabbed the book I was reaching for—The Year of Magical Thinking—and we laughed over the awkwardness.

His name was Arjan. Grew up in Leeds, half Punjabi, a social worker.

He didn’t make grand gestures. He showed up. Remembered small things. Asked questions, then actually listened.

On our third date, I told him about Ozan. Not in detail, just the broad strokes. He nodded and said, “Sounds like a lesson, not a loss.”

That stuck with me.

This June, Arjan and I moved in together. My cat wheezed through the whole ordeal, but she’s adjusting.

Some nights, I still think about that bar. That moment.

“Before you get your hopes up…”

Back then, I thought I had to protect myself from disappointment. Now I know—sometimes, the people who warn you are already halfway out the door.

But sometimes, the people who stay? The quiet ones? They’re the real beginning.

So yeah. Before you get your hopes up, remember this:

Hope is only dangerous when you give it to the wrong person.

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