It started innocently enough. A few late-night texts, a coffee that turned into a wine, and suddenly I was writing about that experience like my life depended on it. Somewhere between heartbreak and Word document number twenty-six, I realized the unthinkable: I have my own Mr. Big.
And worse… I am Carrie.
The beginning of the end (or maybe just the beginning)
It started, as all terrible ideas do, with a message that should’ve been ignored.
“Hey.”
That one word — so small, so harmless — and yet it had the emotional range of an entire season of Sex and the City. I told myself it was nothing, just a little reconnection, a friendly chat. But somewhere between “how have you been?” and “we should catch up,” I found myself spiraling down a familiar, glamorous rabbit hole.
He wasn’t The One. He was The Pattern. The man who inspires poetry, chaos, and a dangerously high screen time report. And like every writer cursed with emotional Wi-Fi, I did what I do best: I started writing about (my experience with) him.
Suddenly, I was typing like a maniac
One night, staring at my blinking cursor, I realized something horrifying — I had become her. Carrie Bradshaw.
The woman who romanticized toxic men and called it content.
The woman who made pain look like prose.
The woman I used to despise.
I had always thought I was too self-aware for that, too rational, too modern. But then I looked at my Google Docs — all titled with cryptic lines and I realized: I was living my own reboot, no HBO contract included.
Everyone hates my Mr. Big
Everyone hates him. My friends, my readers, the people who follow me for my feminist takes.
And honestly, I don’t blame them.
He’s emotionally unavailable, selectively charming, and allergic to commitment. A human cocktail of red flags with questionable taste in music. But here’s the thing: he’s my muse.
He’s the reason I write like a maniac at 2 am, the reason every metaphor feels alive again. He’s chaos wrapped in charisma, and for some reason, I keep saying yes. Not to him, necessarily, but to the story he gives me every time he walks back into my life.
The writer’s curse
Us writers don’t fall in love: we study it.
We dissect it, analyze it, immortalize it.
Every heartbreak is a thesis. Every unanswered text is material. We turn pain into paragraphs, ghosts into characters, and bad decisions into beautiful sentences.
Carrie had her column; I have my website. And my books. And a microphone.
And the worst part? I love it. The drama, the reflection, the illusion that if I can write it, I can understand it. That if I name the feeling, I can finally stop feeling it. Spoiler: I never do.
The big question
I used to think that writing was how I processed things. Now I’m starting to suspect it’s how I prolong them.
Because every time I write about him, I keep him alive. In my sentences, in my imagination, in the little corner of my heart that refuses to delete his name.
So maybe Carrie wasn’t delusional. Maybe she was just like the rest of us writers trying to turn heartbreak into something worth reading.
And as I sit here typing about my own Mr. Big, I can’t help but wonder:
Do we write about love because we feel too much… or because it’s the only way we can make sense of feeling at all?
— Montse
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