As I type this, my heart bleeds. My eyes are full of tears. I hate you, but God, I miss you.
Every day I wake up feeling embarrassed—like I gave too much of myself to someone who wasn’t proud to have me. I wake up feeling overlooked, like I never truly mattered to you the way you mattered to me. I feel worthless, like I was never enough to be chosen fully.
I think about all the things I wished you would do for me. All the ways I hoped you would love me out loud.
Why do you hold back your love from me? Why do you find it easier to believe the worst in me? Have I not proven, time and time again, that I’m not the woman you fear I am?
All I ever wanted was for you to see me. Choose me. Be proud of me. Love me like I loved you.
But I’m mourning now. Mourning what never got to happen. Mourning a version of us that only existed in my dreams. And I can’t tell you this. So I’m telling the wind. I’m telling the silence. I’m telling my tears.
Because somehow, even now, I still love you. And I still wish you loved me back.