I gave him my whole.
Not half.
Not almost.
But everything , every part of me that still believed in the magic of loving and being loved in return.
I held nothing back.
I tried to make him feel what I felt,
to see what I saw,
to cherish the love I wrapped around him like a second skin.
But in the process…
he broke me.
Not gently.
Not with remorse.
But into a million tiny pieces , pieces too small to scream, too fragile to fight back.
And so I did what hurt more than loving him:
I let him go.
I chose to be more broken by leaving
than by staying and slowly losing myself.
Because holding onto someone too prideful to love me back
was beginning to feel like begging for rain in the middle of a desert.
He couldn't hear me.
He didn't want to.
So I stopped speaking in love languages
and started whispering goodbyes.
I stopped trying to fix what only ever cracked deeper,
and I started building a wall where there was once a door.
I had to save myself.
From him.
From my own aching hope.
From the version of me that thought loving someone was enough reason for them to stay.
Maybe walking away with my pride shattered
was the first step toward finding the version of me,
who will never give everything to someone
who won't even give me the bare minimum.