Ending

If you ever came back—
not with your late-night half-words or your convenient silences—
but with a real question,
Why did you cut me off? Why did you block me?

I’ve wondered what I’d say.

Because the truth isn’t loud.
It doesn’t scream or accuse.
It sits quietly in the spaces you left behind.

I would say—
I didn’t leave because I stopped feeling.
I left because I felt too much… alone.

You see, I kept waiting for you to meet me somewhere real.
Not in parked cars, not behind closed doors,
not in the in-between hours where nothing had consequences.
I waited for you in conversations that never happened,
in questions you never asked,
in moments where I needed to matter beyond your need.

You wanted something simple.
Something physical.
Something that didn’t ask you to stretch,
or explain,
or stay.

And I wanted something that had weight.
Something that lingered after the touch was gone.
I wanted to be seen—fully, inconveniently, honestly.

We weren’t asking for the same thing.
But you let me believe we were.

And maybe that’s where it broke.

Because I crossed lines I never thought I would.
I rearranged parts of my life to make space for you—
quietly, carefully, guiltily.
Not because you asked me to,
but because I thought I meant enough for it to matter.

But I didn’t.

Not in the way I needed to.

You showed up when it suited you.
You disappeared when it didn’t.
And somewhere in between,
I started shrinking myself—
my needs, my voice, my expectations—
so I wouldn’t scare you away.

You said things like
“I don’t want conflict.”
“I can’t live up to expectations.”

But what you really meant was—
you didn’t want to try.

And I kept translating your distance into depth.
Your inconsistency into complexity.
Your silence into something meaningful.

It wasn’t.

It was just absence.

And the hardest part?
I still don’t know what I meant to you.

Did you feel anything after the kiss lingered?
After the hug that felt like more than just bodies?
Or was it always just that—
bodies?

Because for me, it wasn’t.

It was never just that.

And maybe that’s why I had to leave.

Not because I stopped missing you—
I still do, in ways I don’t admit out loud.
Not because I stopped wondering—
I still catch myself thinking,
Does he ever think of me? Did I matter at all?

But because staying would have meant accepting
that I was only ever going to be
something temporary in your life.

And I needed more than that.

Not more from you—
just more for myself.

So if you ever come back and ask me why,
I won’t list everything you did wrong.

I’ll just say this:

I wanted to be chosen
in ways you were never willing to choose me.

And I finally chose myself instead.

And if you asked me what I want now?

I’d tell you the truth again.

I don’t want almost.
I don’t want convenient.
I don’t want to be someone you fit into your life
when it’s easy.

I want someone who doesn’t make me question
whether I mattered.

And I think, deep down,
You already know

That was never going to be you.