I kept making room for a man who couldn’t decide if he wanted to stay.
I don’t think anybody understands how many times I tried.
And I mean really fucking tried.
Not that cute little relationship advice kind of trying where you send a paragraph, give somebody a few days to think, and suddenly everything is better.
No.
I’m talking about trying until you don’t even recognize the woman you’ve become.
Trying when you’re tired.
Trying when you’re hurt.
Trying when your friends are tired of hearing about the same man.
Trying when you’ve already cried about something, forgiven it, and somehow found yourself crying about it again three weeks later.
Trying when you know you should probably leave but can’t imagine what your life looks like without him.
That kind of trying.
I tried with Steven.
God knows I did.
And sometimes I wonder if he ever understood just how much of me it took to keep loving him.
Not because loving him was hard.
Loving Steven was probably one of the easiest things I’d ever done.
It was everything that came with loving him that nearly took me out.
I used to think being understanding was one of my best qualities.
I still think it is.
But somewhere between meeting Steven and falling in love with him, I confused being understanding with being willing to understand absolutely anything.
He needed space?
Okay, baby. Take your space.
He was going through something?
I understood.
He wasn’t ready for a relationship?
I could be patient.
He didn’t know what he wanted?
We could figure it out.
He wasn’t good at expressing himself?
I could learn to listen differently.
He felt pressured when I brought up our future?
I’d find a better time.
A softer approach.
A different tone.
A different version of the same fucking question.
I became so good at making accommodations for his feelings that I barely noticed when mine stopped having anywhere to go.
And the thing is, I wasn’t even asking for much.
At least, I didn’t think I was.
I wanted to see him.
I wanted dates.
I wanted him to call me because he missed my voice, not because I’d finally worked up the nerve to ask why we hadn’t talked.
I wanted him to think about me when he made plans.
To consider me.
To want to spend time with me without making it feel like I was requesting an appointment.
I wanted the normal shit.
The grocery store runs.
The lazy Sundays.
The random kisses in the kitchen.
The “you hungry?” texts.
The nights when neither of us had anything exciting to do but being together was enough.
I wanted to be included in his life.
Not just invited into the parts of it he had room for.
And somehow, every time I tried to explain that, I felt like I was asking for too much.
So I started asking for less.
That’s what nobody tells you about loving someone who isn’t meeting you where you are.
You don’t always leave.
Sometimes you just keep shrinking the request.
There was a time when I wanted to see Steven every weekend.
Not because I didn’t have a life.
I had plenty of shit to do.
Work. Friends. Responsibilities. A whole world that existed before him and would continue existing after him.
But I liked him.
I loved him.
I wanted to spend time with my man.
Well.
The man I wanted to be my man.
And I hated having to make that distinction.
Eventually, every weekend became whenever he was available.
Whenever he was available became whenever he felt like it.
And whenever he felt like it became me trying not to ask because I didn’t want to seem needy.
Imagine that.
Being afraid to ask the person you’re sleeping with, laughing with, loving, and imagining a future with if they want to spend time with you.
I could go days without hearing from him.
Sometimes longer than days.
And I’d try to be cool about it.
I’d tell myself he was busy.
That grown people had responsibilities.
That we didn’t need to talk every single day.
Which was true.
But there was a difference between not needing constant communication and feeling like somebody could go without you indefinitely.
I didn’t need Steven attached to my hip.
I just wanted to know he missed me when I wasn’t there.
Sometimes I’d type a message and stare at it.
Hey, you okay?
Delete.
Haven’t heard from you in a while.
Delete.
I miss you.
That one usually stayed.
Because no matter how frustrated I was, I missed him.
And when he finally responded, I hated how quickly the frustration disappeared.
One message.
One phone call.
One little bit of attention.
And suddenly I was smiling at my phone like I hadn’t spent the last several days trying to convince myself I was done.
I wish I could say I held him accountable every time.
I didn’t.
Sometimes I was just happy to have him back.
I remember asking him if he wanted to be with me.
Not once.
Not twice.
Enough times that I eventually became embarrassed to hear myself ask.
“Steven, what are we doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want a relationship with me?”
“I’m not ready.”
“Okay, but do you see us getting there?”
“I don’t know.”
I fucking hated those three words.
I don’t know.
Because what was I supposed to do with that?
How do you build something with somebody who won’t tell you whether they’re building it with you?
And I tried to be fair.
I really did.
I knew people had histories.
I knew relationships could be scary.
I knew commitment wasn’t something everybody entered easily.
Hell, I was a social worker. Understanding people was practically my profession.
But somewhere along the way, I started treating Steven like a person I needed to understand more than a man I needed to be loved by.
I could explain his behavior six different ways.
Maybe he was scared.
Maybe he’d been hurt.
Maybe he needed to work on himself.
Maybe he wasn’t used to somebody loving him the way I did.
Maybe he had things going on that he didn’t know how to communicate.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
I had a whole fucking dictionary of maybes.
And not one of them changed what was happening.
I still wasn’t his girlfriend.
There were moments when I thought we were getting closer.
That’s what made it so hard.
If Steven had been terrible to me every single day, maybe leaving would’ve been easier.
But he wasn’t.
There were moments when he was everything.
Moments when he’d hold me and I’d forget the last argument.
When he’d kiss me and I could feel myself softening before I even had a chance to remember why I was upset.
When we’d laugh about something stupid and I’d think, See? This is us. This is what we could have.
I loved his familiar things.
His voice.
His touch.
The way I could be around him and not feel like I had to entertain him every second.
Sometimes we’d just exist together.
And I loved that.
I loved the possibility of ordinary life with him.
I remember how something as simple as stopping for food could feel romantic because he was there.
How a kiss in the middle of an otherwise uneventful day could have me thinking about wedding vows and baby names.
And I know how ridiculous that sounds.
But I wasn’t imagining a future with some stranger.
I was imagining it with the man who had made me feel, in those moments, like every prayer I’d whispered about love might finally be answered.
He’d once asked my ring size.
Seven.
I remember that.
Of course I remember that.
A woman doesn’t forget the moment a man she loves makes marriage feel like a possibility.
Even if nothing comes of it.
Especially if nothing comes of it.
I held onto those moments.
Collected them.
Replayed them.
Used them as evidence whenever the present started looking too different from the future I imagined.
Because how could a man make me feel so loved one day and so uncertain the next?
I kept thinking the good moments were showing me who he really was.
And the difficult ones were just things we’d eventually work through.
I didn’t realize I was spending more time waiting for the good moments than actually living in them.
Then there were the things I didn’t know what to do with.
The phone.
The secrecy.
The questions about other women.
The things I’d seen that didn’t sit right with me.
The condoms.
The conversations that left me wondering whether I was the only woman taking whatever this was seriously.
I didn’t always know what was happening.
And I want to be clear about that.
I didn’t have answers to every suspicion.
I didn’t know every woman in his life.
I didn’t know what every message meant.
But I knew what uncertainty was doing to me.
I knew how it felt to look at the man I loved and wonder whether I was being naive.
To ask a question and end up feeling worse for asking it.
To want reassurance and somehow find myself defending why I needed reassurance in the first place.
There was a conversation I still wish I could erase from my memory.
Something about another woman.
Something about whether I’d ever know.
And the idea that if he wanted to hide something, he could hide it well enough that I wouldn’t find out.
I remember how that landed.
Not like a joke.
Not like some clever thing to say.
Like a warning my heart didn’t want to hear.
Because what the hell do you say to that?
How do you explain to somebody that you don’t want to be in a position where you have to investigate whether you’re being loved honestly?
I didn’t want to be anybody’s detective.
I wanted to be somebody’s peace.
And I wanted somebody to be mine.
But instead, I was learning how to swallow questions.
How to convince myself not to overthink.
How to look at something that bothered me and decide whether bringing it up was worth the argument.
I started questioning my reactions more than I questioned the things causing them.
And that scared me.
Because I’d always considered myself a woman who knew her worth.
A woman who spoke up.
A woman who didn’t tolerate bullshit.
Yet there I was.
Tolerating things I would’ve told another woman she didn’t have to accept.
And loving him through all of it.
I tried changing how I communicated.
Maybe I was too emotional.
Maybe I needed to be gentler.
Maybe I needed to give him time to process before expecting an answer.
Maybe I shouldn’t bring things up when he was already stressed.
Maybe I needed to stop asking the same questions.
So I worked on it.
I learned to pause.
To breathe.
To think before I spoke.
To choose my words carefully.
And I don’t regret learning those things.
They made me better in ways that had nothing to do with Steven.
But I do regret how often I treated my emotions like an inconvenience.
I’d be hurt and immediately start figuring out how to present that hurt in a way he could tolerate.
I’d rehearse conversations in the car.
Sometimes in the shower.
Sometimes while getting dressed.
Okay, don’t cry this time.
Don’t make it sound like you’re attacking him.
Make sure you acknowledge his feelings.
Don’t bring up too many things at once.
Just explain what you need.
And I’d go into the conversation with all this preparation, all this hope, all this love.
Only to leave feeling like we’d somehow talked about everything except the thing I needed.
I’d end up apologizing for my delivery.
Or reassuring him that I wasn’t trying to pressure him.
Or explaining that I understood where he was coming from.
And then I’d sit there afterward wondering when somebody was going to understand where the fuck I was coming from.
I was bending so much I didn’t even realize how uncomfortable I’d become.
I wanted a family with him.
That’s another thing I don’t think he fully understood.
I wasn’t just trying to get a title.
I wanted a life.
A home.
A marriage.
Children.
I wanted to know what it felt like to build something with somebody who was just as excited about building it with me.
I pictured little things.
Him coming home after a long day.
Me complaining about something ridiculous that happened at work.
Us arguing over what to eat because neither of us felt like cooking.
A baby asleep somewhere in the house.
His shoes by the door.
My books on the table.
Our lives tangled together in all the boring, beautiful ways that make a relationship feel like home.
I didn’t need perfection.
I knew marriage wasn’t some fairy tale.
I knew love required patience, forgiveness, compromise, and work.
I was willing to do the work.
Shit, I was already doing it.
But I wanted to know we were working toward the same thing.
And every time I tried to talk about that future, I felt like I was pulling him toward something he wasn’t sure he wanted.
At some point, he told me maybe in another year.
Another year.
I remember sitting with that.
Trying to make it make sense.
We’d already spent so much time together.
I already loved him.
He knew what I wanted.
He knew how I felt.
What was another year supposed to prove?
Was I supposed to become more lovable?
More patient?
Less complicated?
Would he suddenly wake up ready to give me the things I’d spent two years asking for?
And the part that hurts to admit is that I considered it.
Of course I did.
I considered waiting.
Because when you love somebody, a year can sound small compared to the rest of your life.
I told myself, What’s one more year if it means forever?
But then another thought came.
What if it’s just one more year of this?
And I didn’t have an answer.
I think I lost pieces of myself slowly.
Not all at once.
There wasn’t one dramatic moment where I woke up and realized I was disappearing.
It happened in little ways.
I stopped expecting certain things.
Stopped getting excited about plans until they actually happened.
Stopped assuming he’d call.
Stopped talking about the future as confidently as I used to.
I learned to enjoy whatever time I got without asking too many questions about when I’d get more.
I learned how to miss somebody while still technically having them in my life.
Do you know how lonely that is?
To love someone who’s right there, somewhere in the world, alive and well, and still feel like you can’t reach them?
To have their number.
Know their voice.
Remember what their skin feels like.
And still feel so far away from them that you might as well be strangers?
There were nights I wanted to call him so badly.
Not to argue.
Not to ask for anything.
I just wanted my person.
But then I’d remember I wasn’t sure I was his.
And that realization would sit in my chest like a fucking brick.
I used to wonder what was wrong with me.
Not because I genuinely believed I was unworthy of love.
But because rejection has a way of making even the most confident woman question herself when it keeps coming from the person she wants most.
Was I too much?
Too emotional?
Too available?
Did I love too hard?
Did I make things too easy for him?
Would he have wanted me more if I’d wanted him less?
I hated those questions.
I hated that I was even asking them.
Because I liked the woman I was before all this uncertainty.
She was affectionate.
She was intentional.
She was romantic.
She wasn’t afraid to tell somebody how she felt.
She believed people could love each other without playing games.
And I didn’t want to lose her.
But I could feel myself becoming guarded.
Not because I wanted to be.
Because I was tired of being hurt.
There were times I tried to leave.
Real times.
Not those little dramatic exits people make when they’re hoping somebody will chase them.
I mean times when I sat with myself and said, I cannot keep doing this.
And I’d mean it.
I’d be exhausted.
I’d cry.
I’d tell myself I’d given enough.
That I couldn’t keep having the same conversations.
That I deserved a relationship where I didn’t have to explain why being considered mattered.
And then I’d miss him.
Sometimes it took days.
Sometimes less.
I’d remember something funny he said.
Or a moment when he held me.
Or the way he looked at me during one of those rare times when everything felt right.
And I’d start wondering if I was giving up too soon.
Maybe I should’ve been more patient.
Maybe he was finally starting to understand.
Maybe I was walking away right before things changed.
That last thought kept me longer than I care to admit.
The fear that I’d leave one day too early.
That after all my waiting, all my loving, all my trying, I’d finally walk away right before he became ready.
And somebody else would get the man I’d been praying for.
So I’d stay.
Or I’d come back.
Or I’d reach out.
And we’d find our way into each other’s lives again.
Sometimes without ever really addressing what had pulled us apart.
We were good at that.
Finding each other again.
We weren’t nearly as good at fixing what kept making us lose each other.
I remember one conversation where I was so desperate to understand where we stood that I almost didn’t recognize my own voice.
I was asking him to be with me.
Again.
Trying to explain why it mattered.
Again.
Trying to get him to understand that I wasn’t asking for ownership or control.
I was asking for commitment.
And when the answer finally sounded something like, “Fuck it, we’re together,” I didn’t feel happy.
I felt sick.
Because that wasn’t how I wanted it.
I didn’t want a man to agree to be with me because he was tired of hearing me ask.
I wanted him to be excited.
I wanted him to ask me.
I wanted to feel like he couldn’t imagine continuing his life without making room for me in it.
Not like I’d finally worn him down.
I wanted to be somebody’s choice.
Not somebody’s concession.
And that moment stayed with me.
Because I’d spent so much time thinking that if I could just get him to say yes, everything would feel different.
But when the yes came without the wanting, it hurt almost as much as the no.
Maybe more.
Because what do you do when you finally hear the words you’ve been waiting for and realize they don’t mean what you needed them to mean?
I don’t want to make Steven the bad guy.
I really don’t.
I know how easy that would be.
I could tell this story in a way that makes him sound heartless and me sound like some poor woman who did everything right.
But that wouldn’t be honest.
I wasn’t perfect.
I got frustrated.
I cried.
I asked questions more than once.
Sometimes I reacted from hurt instead of patience.
Sometimes I pushed conversations because the uncertainty was eating me alive.
And sometimes I expected him to understand things I hadn’t fully figured out how to explain.
I know that.
I can own that.
But I also know I tried.
I apologized.
I reflected.
I changed things.
I made room for his feelings even when I was struggling to manage my own.
I tried to love him in ways he could receive.
And I think that’s what makes this so hard to accept.
Because if love were enough, I would’ve loved us into a completely different ending.
I would’ve loved us into marriage.
Into a home.
Into children.
Into Sunday mornings and family vacations and growing old together.
I had enough love for all of that.
What I didn’t have was the ability to make him want it with me.
And God, did I try.
I think one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to accept is that somebody can enjoy you without wanting to build a life with you.
They can like your company.
Love your body.
Laugh at your jokes.
Enjoy your affection.
Miss you sometimes.
Care about you.
And still not choose you.
I used to think those things naturally led somewhere.
That if two people cared about each other enough, eventually they’d figure it out.
But I was doing a lot of figuring out by myself.
I was imagining our future while he was still uncertain about our present.
I was thinking about forever while he was trying to get through the next conversation.
And the worst part?
I knew.
Somewhere deep down, I knew.
Not everything.
Not what he was thinking.
Not whether he would ever change his mind.
But I knew I wasn’t happy with the way things were.
I knew I was hurting.
I knew I was compromising on things that mattered to me.
I knew I was accepting less than what I wanted because I was terrified that asking for more would mean losing him completely.
And I kept hoping love would eventually make the difference.
There was a time when I prayed for Steven more than I prayed about what being with him was doing to me.
I prayed for his peace.
His happiness.
His healing.
His future.
I wanted life to be gentle with him.
I wanted him to succeed.
I wanted him to feel loved.
And I still do.
That’s the thing.
Even now, after everything, I don’t wish anything bad on that man.
I want him to be happy.
I want him to find whatever he’s looking for.
I want him to become the kind of man he wants to be.
I just wish I’d been able to stand beside him while he figured it out.
And I hate how much that hurts to say.
Because I would’ve been there.
Through the difficult seasons.
Through the uncertainty.
Through the things he didn’t have answers for.
I wasn’t looking for a finished man.
I wasn’t expecting him to have everything figured out.
I just wanted to know he wanted me beside him while he figured it out.
I wanted him to look at me and say, I don’t have all the answers, but I know I want you.
That would’ve meant so much to me.
Not because it would’ve fixed everything.
But because at least I would’ve known we were facing the uncertainty together.
Instead, I spent so much time wondering whether I was part of the uncertainty itself.
I don’t know exactly when I got tired.
Maybe it was after another conversation that went nowhere.
Maybe it was one of those nights I cried myself to sleep.
Maybe it was when I realized I hadn’t seen him in so long that missing him had started to feel normal.
Maybe it was the day I stopped asking him to make plans because I couldn’t handle another disappointment.
Or maybe it happened so gradually that there wasn’t a moment at all.
Just a hundred little heartbreaks piling on top of each other until I couldn’t carry them anymore.
I know I loved him.
I know I wanted him.
I know there were moments when I would’ve given almost anything for him to pull me close and tell me we were going to figure it out.
But I was tired.
Not tired of him existing.
Not tired of loving him.
Tired of trying to convince myself I could be happy in a situation that kept making me sad.
Tired of pretending I didn’t care about the things I cared about.
Tired of wondering whether my needs were unreasonable.
Tired of being patient with a future that never seemed to get any closer.
Tired of making myself smaller so the relationship could feel easier for him.
And tired of feeling guilty whenever I couldn’t do it anymore.
I wish I could say I walked away feeling powerful.
I didn’t.
I felt like shit.
I felt sad.
Confused.
Empty.
I wanted to call him.
Wanted to hear his voice.
Wanted to tell him I loved him one more time, as if he hadn’t already heard those words from me a hundred different ways.
And maybe that was the most humiliating part.
Not loving him.
Never that.
But realizing that after everything, I still wanted him.
I could list every disappointment.
Every unanswered question.
Every night I felt lonely.
Every time I swallowed my feelings.
Every conversation where I left feeling like I was asking for too much.
I could remember all of it.
And still miss him.
Still want to curl up beside him.
Still want to tell him something funny about my day.
Still want to be his girl.
How fucked up is that?
To know somebody isn’t giving you what you need and still wish they were the one giving it to you?
I didn’t want a replacement for Steven.
I wanted Steven to want the same things I did.
And I think that’s what people misunderstand about walking away.
Sometimes you don’t leave because you’ve stopped loving somebody.
Sometimes you leave because you’ve finally run out of ways to make the love work by yourself.
I wonder if he’ll ever understand what it took for me to get here.
Not because I need him to feel guilty.
I don’t.
But because I wonder if he knows how many versions of myself I went through trying to make us work.
The patient version.
The understanding version.
The quiet version.
The version who spoke up.
The version who gave him space.
The version who tried not to ask for too much.
The version who pretended she wasn’t disappointed.
The version who cried and still found a way to be gentle.
The version who said she was done.
The version who came back.
The version who believed him.
The version who believed in us.
Every single one of those women loved him.
Every single one.
And I think about how much energy it took to keep becoming somebody new when all I really wanted was to be loved as myself.
The woman who wanted dates.
Who wanted reassurance.
Who wanted to be introduced without hesitation.
Who wanted to feel safe asking questions.
Who wanted marriage and babies and a home filled with laughter.
Who wanted to be kissed in the kitchen.
Who wanted her man to call just because.
Who wanted to stop explaining why those things mattered.
That woman wasn’t asking for too much.
She was just asking someone who couldn’t promise them to her.
And I wish I’d understood the difference sooner.
Sometimes I think about what would’ve happened if Steven had chosen me.
Really chosen me.
Not because I asked.
Not because he was afraid of losing me.
Not because he wanted the conversation to end.
But because he wanted to.
Would I have been happy?
I don’t know.
That’s the truth.
I don’t know.
Maybe we’d have worked through everything.
Maybe the things that hurt me would’ve followed us into a relationship.
Maybe having the title would’ve made me feel secure.
Maybe it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing.
I don’t know.
And I hate not knowing.
Because I spent two years imagining what it would feel like to finally be his girlfriend.
I never really let myself imagine that becoming his girlfriend might not solve everything.
I just thought if he chose me, the rest would be easier.
At least then I wouldn’t have to wonder whether I belonged.
At least then I’d know he wanted me.
At least then I could stop feeling like I was standing outside a house I’d helped build, waiting for somebody to invite me in.
But he never did.
Not in the way I needed.
And now I’m left grieving a life that existed mostly in my imagination.
A wedding that never happened.
Children we never had.
A home we never shared.
A future I could see so clearly that sometimes I forgot he hadn’t agreed to it.
It’s strange, mourning things that never existed.
Because there’s nothing tangible to bury.
No wedding pictures to put away.
No shared last name to change.
No divorce papers.
No house to sell.
Just memories.
Hope.
And a thousand little plans I never got to tell him about.
I keep thinking about the woman I was when I met Steven.
How excited she was.
How hopeful.
How certain that something beautiful was beginning.
I wish I could go back and hold her for a minute.
Not to warn her.
Not to tell her to run.
I don’t think she’d listen anyway.
And truthfully, I don’t know if I’d want to take those memories away from her.
Because she was happy.
She felt something real.
She loved without calculating how much she might lose.
I just wish I could tell her not to abandon herself while trying to keep him.
To pay attention when something hurts.
To stop explaining away every disappointment.
To understand that being patient doesn’t mean putting your whole life on hold.
To remember that she is allowed to want things.
And that wanting those things doesn’t make her difficult.
But I can’t go back.
I can only sit here with everything I know now.
And what I know is that I loved Steven.
I loved him through confusion.
Through disappointment.
Through silence.
Through conversations that made me feel like I was asking for the impossible.
I loved him when I was angry.
When I was sad.
When I was hopeful.
When I was tired.
Even when I knew I needed to leave.
I loved that man.
And for a long time, I thought the depth of my love meant there had to be a future for us.
Because how could something feel this big and still not be enough?
I still don’t have an answer for that.
Tonight, I don’t feel healed.
I don’t feel like some beautiful, evolved woman who’s finally learned her lesson about love.
I feel like a woman who tried really fucking hard.
A woman who kept showing up.
Kept explaining.
Kept forgiving.
Kept hoping.
Kept loving.
And somehow still ended up here.
Alone.
Trying to make peace with the possibility that the man she wanted to spend her life with was never going to want the same life with her.
I hate that.
I hate that I can’t make myself stop loving him just because I’ve decided I can’t keep doing this.
I hate that a part of me still wonders whether he’ll come back.
Whether he’ll wake up one day and realize what we could’ve been.
Whether he’ll finally understand what I was trying to give him.
And I hate that if he did, I don’t know how my heart would respond.
I wish I could say I’d feel nothing.
But I know myself better than that.
I know the sound of his voice could still do something to me.
I know certain memories could still make me smile.
I know I could hear his name in a room full of people and feel something shift inside my chest.
I don’t know when that stops.
I don’t know how long it takes to stop reaching for somebody you’ve spent two years making room for.
I don’t know when I’ll stop wondering what he’s doing.
Or whether he misses me.
Or whether any of this hurts him, too.
I just know I can’t keep living my life waiting for those answers.
And God, that realization hurts.
Because I wasn’t ready to stop imagining him in my future.
I wasn’t ready to let go of the house.
The marriage.
The children.
The ordinary days.
I wasn’t ready to accept that all the things I’d been hoping for might happen someday, just not with him.
I wanted more time.
But I’d already given him so much of it.
And I was scared of what would be left of me if I kept giving.
I lay in bed thinking about the last two years.
All the things I’d said.
All the things I’d swallowed.
All the ways I’d tried to make myself easier to love.
And for once, I didn’t try to figure out what I could’ve done differently.
I was too tired.
Too fucking tired.
I thought about calling him.
Not to argue.
Not to ask him to choose me.
Just to hear him.
To be close to him for a few minutes.
To pretend, for one more conversation, that we were still something I could hold onto.
But I didn’t.
I pulled the covers closer and stared at the ceiling.
My chest hurt.
I could feel the tears coming again.
And I was so tired of crying over a man I still loved.
“I tried,” I whispered.
The room stayed quiet.
“I really did.”
And then I cried.
Because I had.
I had tried until trying started to feel like begging.
I had bent until I couldn’t remember what standing straight felt like.
I had loved him through things that hurt me, hoping that one day he’d love me in a way that made all the waiting make sense.
And even now, knowing everything I knew, I couldn’t bring myself to regret loving him.
I just wished it hadn’t hurt so much.
I wished he’d wanted me the way I wanted him.
I wished there had been one moment, somewhere in those two years, when he looked at me and knew.
Not maybe.
Not eventually.
Not in another year.
Just knew.
That I was the woman he wanted.
That I was worth making room for.
That he didn’t want to lose me.
I waited so long for that moment.
Long enough to start mistaking the waiting for love itself.
And now I had to figure out how to stop.
I turned onto my side.
Closed my eyes.
Tried to breathe.
There was so much I still wanted to say to him.
So many questions I knew I’d probably never ask.
But one kept coming back.
Not because I thought he’d answer it.
Not because I thought an answer would change anything.
Just because after everything I’d given, everything I’d forgiven, and every version of myself I’d tried to become for us, I genuinely didn’t understand.
Steven, how much more of me would it have taken?
I lay there waiting for an answer that wasn’t coming.
And for the first time, I didn’t try to come up with one for him.
