Tolerate It Like Taylor Swift

If you had told me six months ago that I’d be crying in a flannel I didn’t own, eating overpriced brunch with a man still emotionally entangled with his ex, I would’ve said, “That sounds about right.” Because when it comes to Evan, nothing was ever simple, but everything was painfully predictable.

Our story started like most modern tragedies: over drinks on a Friday night. He was charming, attentive, and laughed at all my jokes like he was auditioning to be my boyfriend. By Saturday, we were out again—this time with his ex, Bryan, and their mutual friend to Blend down at Dorchester. 

I joked, “Am I just a replacement for Bryan?” Everyone laughed. Except Evan. Because the truth? It wasn’t really a joke.

By the end of the night, I was a drunken mess. Fueled by tequila and the slow, crushing realization that I was an understudy in his life’s production, I did what any emotionally overwhelmed gay man would do: I threatened to kill myself, banged my head against the concrete, and sobbed like a contestant eliminated on the first night of RuPaul’s Drag Race. Evan held me, tears streaming down his face, apologizing for things he couldn’t even articulate.

That night, we didn’t have sex. Instead, we slept side by side, tangled in an emotional mess of codependency and unresolved trauma. Two stupid twinks trying to make sense of our dysfunction.

The next morning, we grabbed brunch. I was wearing his flannel, a bracelet I shamelessly stole from him, and the lingering hope that maybe—just maybe—this could be something. We wandered down Newbury Street, and for a moment, everything felt easy. Almost romantic.

Then he sent me a poem. Not about me, of course. About Bryan. It was beautiful, raw, and hit every nerve I was trying to ignore. It was also an exact replica of how I felt about him.

Evan wasn’t over Bryan. Fuck it, Evan wasn’t even under Bryan anymore, but he was still living in his shadow.

Over the weeks, I confronted him about everything. His lies, his inability to let go of Bryan, and the truth he tried to bury: he didn’t move to Boston for school. He moved here for Bryan. Bryan, who was his “first serious love,” his emotional support system, his connection to a friend group that he couldn’t afford to lose. Evan admitted that he wasn’t afraid of breaking up with Bryan—he was afraid of what losing him would mean for his life.

It was all too much. I told Evan I needed to be drunk or high to tolerate him. Not because I hated him, but because it was the only way I could survive knowing he didn’t want me. He just didn’t want to be alone.

Evan agreed that his actions often had the worst consequences, even when his intentions were good. But for every moment of accountability, there were just as many moments of denial.

He kissed Bryan. He told me they’d agreed to have sex. And yet, he insisted there was no romantic relationship left between them—just history and mutual dependency.

Although they agreed to have sex, they never got around to it because Bryan insisted on making plans. Evan was mad because he wanted it to be “spontaneous.”

“Spontaneous?” I said. “You’re mad that your ex wanted to schedule your hookup like some kind of fucking dentist appointment?”

He didn’t see the irony.

The pattern repeated itself: we’d hang out, cry together, and then promise to “do better.” I would suddenly snap at him while we're grabbing dinner at Chipotle and have the whole restaurant turn around and stare at us. We would get into screaming matches after midnight in front of my apartment building, but then quickly wipe our tears and smile and pretend like everything was fine whenever my neighbors walked by.

But nothing ever changed. I gaslit myself into thinking I could handle it. That I didn’t need boundaries. That tolerating each other was better than losing him entirely.

But tolerating someone isn’t the same as loving them. And being tolerated isn’t the same as being valued. 

The weeks that followed were a blur of emotional whiplash that I buried myself into writing my thesis instead of confronting the truth. 

Evan wasn’t just using Bryan—he was using me, too. And I let him because I wasn’t ready to let go of the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he’d choose me instead.

I told Evan that his actions, no matter how well-intentioned, always seemed to have the worst consequences. He told me I needed to stop assuming the worst in people, even though I was always right.

We cried together, over and over. I cried because I felt invisible. He cried because he felt trapped. And yet, we kept coming back to each other, tolerating the pain because it felt easier than letting go.

By the end, I wasn’t just mad at Evan—I was mad at myself. For staying. For hoping. For gaslighting myself into believing this would get better when it never did.

But here’s the thing about Evan: he wasn’t evil. He was just broken, like me.

When I finally apologized for my drunken meltdown, Evan told me something that hit me like a truck: “You need to learn how to advocate for yourself. It’s okay to have wants, to ask for what you need. But you also need to know when someone can’t—or won’t—give it to you.”

He was right. But I was right, too, when I told him I couldn’t watch him be intimate with other boys. That I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay when I wasn’t. That I couldn’t be friends with someone who made me feel like a placeholder in their life, it was killing me.

So, here’s what I learned from Evan:

1. Never settle for being someone’s second choice. No poem, flannel, or bracelet is worth the pain.

2. Advocating for yourself isn’t selfish—it’s survival.

3. Boundaries aren’t just for other people but also for you.

Evan and I weren’t meant to last. He taught me how to be vulnerable, how to confront my trauma, and how to see my patterns for what they are. He was my crash course in emotional masochism, a reminder that love without respect is just a slow form of self-destruction.

But he also taught me what it feels like to be tolerated instead of cherished—and I’m done being anyone’s placeholder.

I don’t hate that white twink. In fact, I’m grateful for him. Because now, I know what I deserve: something more than screaming matches and brunches and poems about someone else.

Because love shouldn’t feel like a competition. And if it does, you’re better off walking away—flannel, bracelet, and all.