There was a time in my life where I lived in a throuple.
Two guys who had been together forever, or at least it felt like it. They had the history, the rhythm, the shorthand. And then there was me, the third. The newest piece of the puzzle.

And for a while, it worked.
We cooked together. Laughed together. Built a kind of chosen family I hadn’t felt before. It gave me a sense of belonging I hadn’t realised I was so desperate for.

But there were cracks.
Except for early on… we didn’t really have sex.
And if I’m honest, I was never truly physically attracted to them.
It took hindsight to name that. Back then, I thought I was in love.
Looking back, I think I was in need. I was craving connection. Safety. A space to land. And I convinced myself that this was it.

It started to fall apart when one of them began pursuing a career as a porn star.
He leaned fully into the persona. The character.
And somewhere in the middle of all that performance, he stopped being the person I’d grown close to. And I was expected to be a fan, not a lover.
Eventually, the other partner saw it too. The shift, the distance, the disconnect.

And here’s the hardest truth:
I think I was groomed into that situation.
Into believing it was right. Into believing I belonged.
Because when someone charismatic and confident tells you you’re special, and you’re craving closeness, it’s easy to blur the lines between love and being chosen.

I don’t regret it.
But I do see it more clearly now.

It wasn’t a love story.
It was a search for connection that taught me how easy it is to lose yourself in someone else’s world, especially when you didn’t feel grounded in your own.