Perhaps this is the quietest way I know to love him now.

At first, I couldn’t understand.
How two people who love each other deeply
could still hurt just the same.

How we could both feel seen and unseen,
and loved and not quite right,
at the same time.

If I felt unloved gently,
shouldn’t he have felt like he wasn’t enough?

If he felt too much,
shouldn’t I have felt left behind?

I thought maybe what I felt
should explain what he felt,
that our aches should be
the answers to each other.

But they weren’t.

Somewhere along the way,
we both learned to listen more to ourselves.

Maybe it was the way we mirrored thoughts,
the way it all clicked,
the way he understood me
in ways no one else ever did—

that was also the very reason
we couldn't stay.

Like a pair of shoes with two right feet.

So close.
But not meant to walk together.

Yet somehow, I found comfort
in knowing he’ll be loved better
by someone who fits just right.

His left.
His match.

And so,
I feel relieved in the oddest way.