until my feelings fit
inside someone else's comfort.
I am tired of saying,
"I'm okay,"
when my heart is loud enough
to wake the whole night.
I refuse to become
a quieter version of myself
just to keep the peace
while a war continues
inside my chest.
You ask why I think so much.
I wish you knew
that my questions
were never an interrogation.
They were hands
reaching for yours,
asking,
"Tell me again.
Love me again.
Choose me again."
Not because I doubted you,
but because hearing your love
felt like coming home.
Yet somehow,
my longing became suspicion.
My fear became mistrust.
My love became accusations
I never meant to make.
And somewhere between
what I said
and what you heard,
we got lost.
I hated how our hardest conversations
always sounded like
we were enemies.
The sharp replies.
The anger.
The silence that followed.
I kept hoping
that one day
we would learn
how to hold each other
instead of defending ourselves.
Still,
I stayed.
Not because it was easy,
but because I believed
you were worth
understanding.
There were nights
I almost gave up.
Not because I stopped loving you,
but because loving you
sometimes felt like
standing in the rain,
waiting for someone
who had already gone inside.
When I cried,
I wanted your arms.
When everything felt heavy,
I wanted your voice
telling me,
"We're okay.
I'm still here."
Instead,
you needed distance.
I know
space is how you breathe.
But closeness
is how I survive.
Neither of us was wrong.
We were simply speaking
different languages
while hoping
the other would somehow
understand.
I wanted honesty.
You thought
I wanted another argument.
I wanted to explain my heart.
You thought
I was testing yours.
You said,
"Congratulations.
You win."
But love
was never a competition
I wanted to win.
If one of us loses,
then both of us
go home
empty.
So here we are—
standing at the edge
of another silence.
You cannot bear
the way I love.
I cannot bear
the way you leave
when love becomes difficult.
And I don't know
which hurts more—
the thought of letting you go,
or the thought
of spending forever
begging to be understood.
If this is the end,
know this:
I never fought
because I wanted chaos.
I fought
because I believed
we were worth saving.
And if this is not the end,
then meet me
not with pride,
not with distance,
not with a scoreboard
but with open hands,
so we can finally stop asking
who is right,
and start remembering
that it was always supposed to be
us.
