Buffalo, New York, is a sports city with a drinking problem. It’s also a drinking city with a sports problem. To me, it’s just a city with a problem. I lived there for 18 adolescent years, and for every single one, I couldn’t wait to leave. It wasn’t the devastatingly cursed Buffalo Bills that gave me grief about my afflicted hometown, or the fact that the Buffalo Sabres have been in a pit of athletic despair since the 1999 Stanley Cup finals. My dad tells me I fell through ice as a toddler and clapped my hands with glee as he fished me out, so it wasn’t even the infamously snow-filled, bone-chilling winters that bothered me either. Even as a little kid, I knew how to deal with the cold and snow—there were parking lot snow mounds to ascend, there were neighborhood dogs to attach sleds to, there were icy ponds to practice slap shots on. Sounds fun, no? No. Not then anyway.

You see, Buffalo is kind of like the guy your parents wish you’d marry: friendly, wholesome, safe, dependable, charming even. But much like that same guy, it’s missing that edge, that blinding sexiness to hold your interest and keep you coming back for more. It’s full of potential and great on paper! But it’s Prince Charming, as picked out by your mom and dad. That’s never going to be enough.

And that’s the exact problem I had with Buffalo all along: It simply wasn’t enough. One can only go midnight bowling so many times before they become slightly insane. One can only eat every self-declared “best chicken wing” in the city before they all start to taste the same. And one can only watch their beloved sports teams lose so many times before they, too, begin to feel like a loser. Where was the culture? Where was the art? Where was the music and the food and the diversity and the opportunity? I couldn’t find it, so I left, and I never looked back—until now.

Come August, I’ll have lived in New York City for 10 years. A lot has changed back home since I left. My childhood home is now someone else’s. People whom I swore would be lifelong friends have become passing strangers. And after years of pushing home away, I miss it. I miss the simplicity, the slowness, the resilience, the sense of community. And silly me for thinking it was all wasted potential; the Buffalo I always yearned for is finally coming to fruition. The waterfront is expanding; there are new museums, new restaurants, new hotels. The Bills finally made it to the playoffs for the first time after 17 painful years. Hell, even The New York Times dubbed Buffalo one of its top travel destinations for 2018. Buffalo came around, just as I’d always dreamed. Only I’m not there anymore.

I’ve since learned in the decade that I’ve spent away that it’s better to love something—or someone—for exactly what it is, instead of wishing it were something else. And sometimes, if you’re lucky enough, that high school nice guy can become the dashing daydream of a guy, that perfect balance of sweet but suave. All it really takes is patience, loyalty, and a place in your heart. Maybe I’ll move back someday and give it another shot, especially if I get a good enough reason. But until I do, I’ll proudly stop every Bills jersey–wearing stranger I see, smile, and ask: “Hey—are you from Buffalo?”

Love Stories is a series about love in all its forms, with one new essay appearing each day for the first two weeks of February, until Valentine’s Day.