Kate Didd

There are weeks that feel scripted, weeks that feel chaotic, and then there are weeks where your life feels like a romantic comedy written by someone who took too much cold medicine.

This was the third kind.

I went on three dates, three men, three energies, three sets of eyes watching me like I was some sort of rare cosmic event, and by Monday morning I was flat on my back with a 103° fever, contemplating death and also wondering why I couldn’t stop shivering.

The irony is thick here:

I went looking for romance and ended up getting the flu.

The most accurate foreshadowing of my love life, honestly.

Act I: Motherhood, the Horror-Comedy That Never Ends

Before we talk men, let me set the stage: a house full of children during flu season is not for the faint of heart.

There’s no candle-lit glow, no cute “mom aesthetic,” nothing that resembles anything soft and feminine. It’s survival mode. It’s disinfectant wipes. It’s the soundtrack of coughing and tiny feet walking to your room at 2 a.m.

And I have an autoimmune disorder, so when sickness hits me, it doesn’t “hit” it conquers, colonizes, and declares itself emperor.

By Sunday night, I was curled in bed, hallucinating shapes in the ceiling, my body creating dreamlike, fever-induced “visions” to cope with pain. Truly, my immune system said:

“Let’s create art!”

And like any delusional sick girl with questionable priorities, I lay there comparing myself to a female Dean Winchester, just as chaotic, just as dramatic, but with better hair and worse immune function.

Act II: The Co-Parent Who Walked In Like a Plot Twist

Just when I thought the fever might claim me, the father of my children suddenly appeared like the weary hero of a low-budget fantasy movie messy hair, tired eyes, and arms full of supplies.

Cold medicine.

Ibuprofen.

Crackers.

Three different Gatorade colors (because he always remembers I hate the yellow one).

Soup.

That familiar quiet concern in his voice.

He brushed my hair out of my face in a way that made time slow down, like muscle memory he forgot he had. And he told me I was beautiful, even though my lips were chapped, and my eyes looked like I’d been crying in a cave for six years.

I didn’t have the energy to pretend I didn’t need him.

And that was the intimate part.

Not romantic intimacy.

But the intimacy of being known.

He knew the rhythms of my sickness.

He knew the silence that meant pain.

He knew the exact foods my body could hold.

He knew my emotional fragility when I’m too sick to talk.

There is something unsettling about being cared for by someone who used to love you in a way they can’t anymore. The familiarity wraps around you like a warm blanket you didn’t ask for but desperately needed.

And that… that got to me.

Act III: The Roster I Accidentally Built

While I was sweating, shaking, and bargaining with the universe for another hour of existence, I suddenly remembered:

Oh.

I had three dates this weekend.

Three men.

Three stories I didn’t have the strength to keep straight.

Let’s break it down:

Bachelor #1: The Too-Much-Too-Soon Guy

We had chemistry.

Like immediate, spark-shooting-from-the-table chemistry.

He looked at me like I was the answer to a question he hadn’t fully formed yet.

We talked for hours, my hair over one shoulder, his fingers brushing mine “accidentally,” the kind of eye contact that feels like touching someone with your soul.

Then I got sick.

And I ghosted.

Not because I didn’t care, because I literally couldn’t care about anything besides breathing and not dying.

I feel guilty.

But also, he had “red flags hiding behind good cologne” energy.

Bachelor #2: Mr. Salsa Dancing

Tall. Sharp jaw.

That kind of charming confidence that makes you sit up straighter without realizing.

He kept touching the small of my back when he laughed, and I felt it like electricity.

He wanted to go salsa dancing this week.

Sir, I can’t even walk to the bathroom without gripping the wall like a Victorian woman fainting over bad news.

I rescheduled because he deserves someone who can stand upright.

Bachelor #3: The Slow Burn Thursday Man

At first, he seemed… boring.

Quiet.

Predictable.

But then I realized his predictability wasn’t dull, it was steady.

Like a warm room on a cold night.

Like a lighthouse, not fireworks.

He texts thoughtfully.

Responds quickly but not clingily.

Busy, but not too busy.

Grounded in a way that feels safe.

He doesn’t know I’ve been sick.

And for some reason, that makes the thought of seeing him again feel… exciting.

He might be the one who surprises me.

Act IV: The Ghost Who Returned

Just as I settled into my fever-dream chaos, he texted.

The one who pushed me out.

The one who said he couldn’t give me anything real, then disappeared in the exact way he said he wouldn’t.

The one I chose, passionately and stupidly, even as he unraveled in front of me.

Now he’s back.

Trying.

Apologizing.

Reflecting.

Taking ownership.

Doing all the things he swore he wasn’t capable of.

And I’m sprawled in bed coughing, thinking:

Not you showing character growth while I’m over here fighting for my life.

I’m still angry.

Still confused.

Still unsure if any of this is real, or if it’s a fever hallucination.

Act V: The Domestic Resurrection

When my fever broke, I did the one thing that made me feel powerful again:

I stripped all the beds.

Washed every sheet.

Vacuumed.

Shampooed the carpets.

Wiped every counter.

Opened every window.

A full cleansing.

A ritual of return.

A reminder that I am still here, still capable, still alive.

I didn’t do it perfectly.

But I did it intentionally.

And that was enough.

Act VI: Why They Want Me, The Real Truth

A friend asked, “Why do all these men want you?”

The answer is uncomfortable but true:

I don’t hurt people.

When men are emotional, overwhelmed, confused, or vulnerable, I don’t exploit it.

I meet people with gentleness.

I see them.

I understand the hidden parts of them.

I listen without trying to fix.

I hold without trying to own.

And men feel that like warmth on cold skin.

I’m the girl who protects the soft spots of others.

Who stands up for the small, the broken, the ones who think they don’t matter.

I am the one who carries the light even while limping through my own darkness.

And that is rare.

People look up to me.

And that terrifies me.

Not because I’m afraid of being caught doing something wrong, but because I genuinely honor what it means to be seen.

I know my soul is loud.

I know people feel it.

And I don’t want to misuse that.

So I choose carefully.

Lovingly.

Morally.

Even when the right thing looks so goddamn wrong.

Even when the wrong thing looks like a delicious escape.

Because at the end of all this

the dates,

the sickness,

the men orbiting my life like confused satellites,

the unexpected tender moments,

the fear,

the clarity,

the soul always knows what it’s doing.

Even when everything else is chaos.