The First Time He Left Me
He told me to go pick up my things in China
Pudong Airport, Shanghai, September 25, 2025.
During the three weeks of study in Shanghai, Dorama had total control over my routine — he knew where I was and when we’d see each other, and our relationship ran almost without conflict. Going back to traveling would bring the complete opposite.
As you’ve already noticed, on trips I paid for everything — flights, hotels, meals. That inverted the power dynamic he needed to maintain. From my side, it was my way of caring for him — being empathetic, thinking about the rent he was paying on an apartment he wouldn’t be sleeping in, the pet hotel for the dog. But to do that, I had to meet my own agenda: videos to film, schedules to keep, deliverables for brands. I had goals that didn’t depend on him, and that were sometimes more urgent than he was.
Any moment he felt secondary on that agenda was unbearable. In truth, he was my center. Everything I did was for him and to stay close to him. But that didn’t matter.
At the airport, my responsibilities started again. I tried to film a video in front of the Pokémon pop-up store. Dorama, like every time I wanted to do something, suggested the opposite.
“There are other shops near our gate — we can go check those out.”
My responsibility to film something interesting was now in conflict with his constant attempt to take control of the situation. The pressure mounted.
“I just need to film a quick shopping video, and I love this store. We don’t need to walk far.”
I bought a Pokémon Pikachu exclusive to the Chinese airport, dressed in the traditional 汉服 (Hanfu) red — the way a Chinese groom would dress at a wedding. It became my travel companion from that moment on.
We boarded a China Southern flight to Osaka, Japan. A short flight, just over two hours. Sitting in our seats, I needed to keep filming for YouTube, plus additional footage for a language learning brand.
It would be my first video with that brand. They asked for a flight attendant theme, so I had saved this day specifically to film on board.
Once again, we clashed over the seatbelt. Dorama would pretend to buckle it whenever the flight attendant walked past our row. She’d keep moving through the cabin, and he’d drop the belt to the side.
The simple fact of feeling buckled, restrained to a seat, or just following a rule — none of that was acceptable to him in any way. I held myself back again. He looked at me, knowing what my reaction would be.
With his face shifting even though I hadn’t said a word, he tried to explain himself.
“You know, if it’s your time, no seatbelt is going to stop something from happening to you.”
He thought he had gotten away with it. I knew a seatbelt doesn’t exist to protect you from a plane crash — it exists for unexpected turbulence, rejected takeoffs, and hard landings. And more importantly: it doesn’t only protect you. It protects the people around you.
For him, that function seemed not to exist.
If I hadn’t been a flight attendant, I probably wouldn’t have cared as much.
I pushed. He buckled the belt with his face completely transforming. Like a stubborn child forced to do something.
We landed in Osaka at 4 in the afternoon. Some argument happened. I can’t remember what it was about.
At 4:20 PM, I sent the following message in Mandarin, translated with AI, in an attempt to make him understand exactly what I was trying to say:
“开始为你说的话和做的事负责 — Start taking responsibility for what you say and what you do.”
“你如果想要挑刺的话不必等到现在 — If you wanted to pick a fight, you didn’t need to wait until now.” 挑刺 literally means “choosing thorns” — an expression for finding fault, provoking, or picking a fight over small things.
I am absolutely certain it was not something small. I was reaching my limit faster than before. But I was still trying to have a serious conversation, focusing on what I saw as the real problem: the lack of accountability, the absence of any apology, the constant way I was being blamed.