We were somewhere between healing together and accidentally hurting each other while trying to.

I spoke to him about what we both carried,
what we once hoped for,
and what we still wished for the years ahead.

We agreed:
there were mistakes.
But also, so much we misunderstood.

We felt the same thing.
That strange, familiar sense
of being meant for each other.

So we chose to try again.
This time, to build something lasting.

And I believed everything that happened
was our way of trying to bring love into form.
Me, in my way,
him, in his.

But then I learned:
loving someone deeply
doesn’t always mean
you feel loved in return.

Because there were days I longed for his gentleness,
even when I understood his reactions were shaped
by wounds I left behind.

Days we couldn’t meet in the middle,
and I tried to hold space for the ways
our histories shaped us.

Days I felt guilty when I couldn’t keep up,
even when I knew he only asked for things
meant to help me grow.

Then he also grew weary,
watching me falter in the same places.

There were times
he gave, he tried, and he got hurt
by the noise of my fears.

But even if I followed every step he asked of me,
even if I became a better version of myself,
my own longings could've mattered, too.

We do love each other.
In all the ways.
Always.

But while he tried hard, I tried to be softer.
And when I was finally able to understand,
we had already drifted too far.

So it wasn’t the lack of love that broke us.
It was the way we loved, with all our depth,
without enough room to hold each other correctly.

I think that's what ended us.