“maybe we should end this,”
what I truly meant was
“please fight for us.”
Please hold my breaking heart
before it convinces itself
that leaving is easier
than feeling unwanted.
I did not say it
because I stopped loving you.
I said it after carrying
too many quiet hurts
for too long.
I thought maybe,
just maybe,
you would stop me.
Tell me not to go.
Remind me that love
was still here beneath the damage.
But you agreed so quickly
that it felt like...
you had been standing at the exit
long before I opened the door.
And now somehow
the story paints me
as the reason everything collapsed.
As if my breaking point
appeared out of nowhere.
As if exhausted hearts
simply wake up one day
and choose goodbye.
You point at my final reaction
without remembering
all the moments
that slowly pushed me there.
And maybe that is
the cruelest part...
not losing you,
but realizing
how easily my pain
became evidence against me
instead of proof
that I was hurting too.
