High Hippie

I call it the moment you taught me that your love has conditions.

You didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. You left because loving me became difficult. Instead of standing beside me and facing the mess we both created, you found the nearest exit and gave it a softer name.

A break.

What a convenient little word.

It sounds so much kinder than what it felt like.

Abandonment.

You had weeks. Maybe months. You knew something was changing. You knew you were pulling away. You knew I could feel it. You watched me ask questions, reach for you, cry, panic, beg for honesty, and somehow you still decided the best time to tell me was after you were already gone. Safe. Untouchable. Hundreds of miles away.

You robbed me of the dignity of having that conversation face to face.

Do you have any idea what that does to someone?

I spent months blaming myself. Wondering what I could fix. Wondering why I suddenly wasn’t enough. Wondering why the man who used to make me feel chosen started making me feel like I was asking for too much by wanting to matter.

And all the while, you already had one foot out the door.

You say you couldn’t be there for me the way you wanted.

The truth is, I didn’t need perfection.

I needed effort.

I needed honesty.

I needed a partner who would look at me and say, “This is hard, but I’m not leaving.”

Instead, you showed me exactly what happens when life gets heavy.

You leave.

You call it protecting yourself.

I get to call it surviving what you did to me.

The cruelest part is that you didn’t just break my heart.

You reached into wounds that existed long before you ever met me and tore them back open. Every fear of being abandoned. Every memory of not being enough. Every lesson I spent years trying to unlearn—you brought every single one of them screaming back to life.

And that’s what I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive.

Not because relationships end.

They do.

But because of how you ended us.

Cowardice dressed up as compassion.

Distance disguised as kindness.

Silence pretending to be love.

You may come back after tour hoping we’ll work on things, hoping enough time will have softened what happened.

I don’t think you understand.

I’m not angry because you asked for space.

I’m angry because you made me believe I was safe with you before proving I wasn’t.

You made promises with your mouth and broke them with your actions.

You taught me that when things become uncomfortable, I’m disposable.

You don’t get to decide that this is temporary.

You don’t get to disappear, leave me to carry the weight of your decision alone, and then expect to find me exactly where you left me.

The woman who would have waited for you is dying a little more every day you’re gone.

And if she is gone by the time you come back…

It won’t be because you took a break.