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I live alone, but I never feel lonely.

Because for as long as I can remember,
he never left me by myself. Not even once.

He always made sure to treat me gently,
to care for my needs, completely.
He never raised his voice.
Never dismissed my hand.

He took me to beautiful places,
and to the ordinary ones that meant just as much.
He stayed by my side.
And when he couldn’t, he always found his way back to me.
He remembered every little thing about me,
and made sure I’d always say, “I’m happy.” 

He was there. He always was.
And I really am happy.

But it was me who couldn’t believe he was mine.
It was me who couldn’t stop thinking he’d leave someday.
So I kept proving myself.
Kept trying, hiding, shrinking.

I lost myself, trying to prove my love for him.
When all I ever needed was to love him back.

I brought the wounds I never truly faced,
believing that being with him could make everything easier.
And it was.
But the untreated, unaddressed ache
became a heartless resistance,
one thing he never, ever deserved.

And maybe that’s how I carried my pain into us—
until I hurt him.
Until the very end of us.

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