I think we both know we hurt each other in ways we didn’t fully understand.
You couldn’t love me the way I needed, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave—even when I knew something wasn’t right.
At first, I told myself it was just a rough phase. That if I stayed longer, loved harder, explained myself better, things would change. And sometimes they almost did. There were moments when we felt okay, even happy. But it was never enough to feel safe—just enough to make me stay.
So I adjusted. I softened my needs, lowered my expectations, and convinced myself that this was what love looked like. Not because it felt good, but because it felt familiar.
I know you weren’t trying to hurt me. But not knowing how to love me still hurt me. And being in a place where I had to teach you how to care for me made me feel even more alone.
The truth is, I felt unloved for a long time. Even when we tried again, nothing really changed. I kept hoping, kept asking, because I knew I deserved more, but it started to feel like I was begging for something that should have been natural.
And still, I stayed. Not because it was right, but because leaving felt harder than being unhappy.
But I’ve realized something now. Love shouldn’t feel like something you have to survive. It shouldn’t require you to shrink yourself just to make it work.
That’s why I’m choosing myself this time.
Not because I hate you. Not because I want to hurt you. But because I don’t want to keep living in something that slowly takes pieces of me away.
I’m letting go, not with anger, but with acceptance.
I hope one day you understand that leaving you was the last way I could love both of us.
