Love Bombed, Maybe: Choosing My Peace (Part 3)

The morning LB left, I realized I felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted. It was still early, the sun not yet visible as the soft light of dawn slowly appeared. The stillness around me was comforting. The hummingbirds began to flit near the feeders, starting their day, while my dogs gathered around me, ready for their morning meal.

I stood watching them eat, then wandered to the balcony, where I watched the hummingbirds move quickly and effortlessly, exactly where they were meant to be. I felt something shift inside me. I didn’t feel sadness, nor relief. Just clarity—that quiet sense of knowing I was exactly where I wanted to be, without the need for another person to define my life.

The life I had built in Colombia came back to me in that moment—shaped by my instincts, my intuition, my mistakes, and my decisions. Standing there, looking out over the mountains, I realized how much I loved this life.

And for the first time, I allowed myself to fully accept something I hadn’t said out loud before: I didn’t need anyone else to fill the space beside me.

Christmas brought rest after a busy month of hosting guests at my glamping site. LB was with his family in the U.S., and we were back to sending memes on WhatsApp. I felt rested, finally free from his constant neediness—the disrupted sleep, the phone in hand at all hours.

As December came to a close, I was busy preparing for New Year’s Eve, one of my busiest times of the year. Every room was filled. And yet, I felt content.

My life in Colombia had healed me in ways I hadn’t fully recognized before. I no longer felt the need for someone else to complete me. If someone wants to join me on my journey, they would have to be an equal—grounded, self-aware, and whole in their own right.

I have spent years building this life, shaping it through reflection, growth, and hard-earned clarity. And I know how important it is to protect that.

LB had returned to his life in the United States, but I noticed a quiet shift in our communication. He would let my messages sit unread for long periods or respond with a simple heart. Then, after hours of silence, he would send a string of memes, most of them centered on love.

I had been thinking about how to talk to him about his habits during his visit in December. I knew I couldn’t have him back without some honest conversation and meaningful changes. As I mentioned in my last blog, he had said he would visit every month, but never said when he would return. I wasn’t asking by then—I already knew my feelings had shifted while he was here.

Then I got the text that changed everything.

It started simply: “I don’t understand why you aren’t reading my messages.”

His reply was: “I don’t appreciate being chastised for not immediately responding like you’re an unhappy client.”

Just one dismissive message. That was enough.

In that moment, I realized continuing the communication wasn’t healthy for me. I don’t do drama. I value my peace. So I responded the way I always do when something feels off: I stepped back into silence.

It wasn’t just the text—it was everything that had been building beneath it. And suddenly, I no longer felt the need to address any of it.

Later, he sent me an email. He argued at length that he had always been direct with me, that my blogs misrepresented him, and that I had never raised my concerns in real time.

I had planned to do that gently, in my own way, but his reaction to a simple question had already shown me how those conversations would go.

Reading his email, I noticed a pattern. He focused on what I hadn’t done, not on what had actually happened between us. In that moment, I knew I didn’t need to respond in detail. I already understood enough.

I found his idea of love interesting. He said his feelings were genuine, that he was the thoughtful one, and that his love was real—yet there was never any accountability. The text he had sent was simply ignored, as if it didn’t exist.

I had to laugh.

He tried to provoke me, calling me a “mess” as a joke, and I replied, “Maybe you should add saying ‘I’m sorry’ to your resume.” He didn’t know how to read me at all.

Then he quickly replied, asking if I would write a fourth blog titled, “What if the Love Bomber Really Loved Me?” and signed it, Warm Regards, The Love Bomber. I actually laughed out loud.

When we first met in Bogotá, he told me he didn’t like predictable women, and that I wasn’t one. Yet in the end, his behavior was entirely predictable. Instead of taking responsibility, he continued to shift the blame.

His last email was well written—I’ll give him that. Maybe someone else would have found it convincing. But for me, it only confirmed what I already knew.

So I did what felt right. I stepped back, I reflected, and I wrote. I share my experiences not to convince anyone, but simply because they are mine.

The ending wasn’t dramatic. There was no big confrontation, and I’ve realized I didn’t need one. We’ve stayed in touch, but nothing we’ve said has changed how I feel.

I don’t need him to understand. I don’t need an apology.

What matters most is peace—and I have it.

Sometimes, love doesn’t fail for lack of feeling. It fails when one person cannot meet the other where they need them to be. LB liked to say he was being direct, but I’ve learned that “direct” can often be a mask for hurtful words.

“What I thought was an ending was really a return—to myself, my life, and my peace.”

PS: LB is the Love Bomber. He has the traits of someone who isn’t fully secure, yet he is a decent person. I hold no grudges. Some love stories end suddenly; others quietly fade away.

Either way, I am still me—still laughing, still living my life, unbothered and one step ahead.