Grief

You,

I blocked you because I needed silence. Not from you — from myself. From the version of me that kept waiting for your name to appear on my phone like it could steady the entire chaos inside my chest. I thought distance would make things clearer. Instead, it made everything louder.

Now I see you everywhere.

In every car that slows beside me at a signal. In every crowded café where someone leans back in a chair the way you do — distracted, confident, impossible to fully reach. Sometimes I still look for your car on roads I know you probably never even take. It’s embarrassing, almost. The way my eyes search before my mind can stop them. The way I still remember those drives with you so vividly — your hand resting lazily near the gear, music too low to matter, me pretending I wasn’t memorizing every version of your silence.

I didn’t want this to happen to me.

I didn’t want to become the kind of woman who loses her balance over someone emotionally unavailable. I wanted friendship. That was the safest word for what I felt. Friendship meant I could keep you in my life without asking questions that would ruin everything. And maybe that’s why I fought the attraction for so long, because somewhere deep down I knew the moment we crossed that line, there would be no returning to something clean and uncomplicated.

But then you touched me like I mattered.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all.

Because I still don’t understand why you fucked me the same way you probably fuck every other woman who wanders too close to you. I thought I would be different to you. Not because I’m prettier or smarter or more special than anyone else — but because of the way you looked at me sometimes when you forgot to be careful. Because your body confessed things your mouth never would. Because there were moments your hands held me with a tenderness that did not feel casual, no matter how much you later tried to reduce it into something smaller.

You kept saying one thing while feeling another.

And I hate that I could feel it.

I hate that my heart still believes the version of you that existed in those quiet seconds — the pauses, the lingering hugs, the way your eyes softened when you thought I wasn’t looking. Maybe I imagined half of it. Maybe wanting to be loved makes fools out of intelligent women. But I know what tension feels like. I know what restraint feels like. And you were never as unaffected as you pretended to be.

That’s what breaks me.

Not the distance. Not even the rejection.

It’s the confusion of being held close by someone who refuses to truly keep you.

You kept me near enough to need you but far enough to deny me. And every time I tried to understand it, you made me feel irrational for noticing what was right in front of me. Maybe you had reasons bigger than me. Maybe your fears were real. Maybe your life was already too complicated to make space for someone like me in a way that was honest. But it still hurt because I was willing. God, I was willing for you in ways I had never been for anyone else.

I would have adjusted.
I would have stayed.
I would have loved you gently.

And maybe that’s exactly why you ran.

Because people like you know how to receive love when it’s convenient, but not how to hold it responsibly once it becomes real.

What scares me most is that despite everything, despite blocking you, despite the anger and humiliation and endless overthinking, your face is still the only thing that calms me down sometimes. I don’t know what kind of attachment does that to a person. I started hating weekends because I knew I wouldn’t accidentally see you. Isn’t that pathetic? To miss someone not even because they belonged to you, but because their existence made the world feel slightly more bearable.

I keep asking myself what is wrong with me.

But maybe this isn’t entirely my fault.

Maybe some connections arrive unfinished. Maybe some people walk into your life carrying exactly the kind of loneliness that matches yours. And maybe for a brief moment, standing too close to each other feels like relief instead of danger.

I think that’s what you were to me.

Relief.

Until you became grief. Endless Grief.