It's hard to know what to say when someone you loved deeply chooses to rewrite the ending. But you asked for my truth.
There was no fight, it's true. No single moment of betrayal. Just silence. Distance. And then the deletion of the shared space that held our words, our history—our us. That’s what broke me.
You asked me to keep those words. You told me they mattered. And then, without a conversation, you erased them. That was the moment I felt something shatter—not just between us, but inside me.
I still love you. I probably always will, in that quietly aching way you love someone who once saw you. But loving someone doesn’t mean accepting silence as affection or allowing your soul to shrink to fit what’s left.
It was wrong of me to think that what I had to offer would fit your needs. Seems that it did for a while and it felt very real but in the end we both know now it was temporary. I understand now I could have never held you completely and I want you to be happy but that doesn't mean that I didn't fall hard and I wanted to give you all of me.
I’m not angry your moving forward. I want you to find the structure and surrender you are seeking. I want you to feel chosen, owned, and safe. But I can’t pretend I wasn’t gutted by how you left—by how it felt like a vanishing act rather than a goodbye.
There were so many moments that meant everything. That were real. That I held like sacred things.
I’ll carry those, too.
But I won’t carry the silence. I won’t carry the narrative that this was mutual, clean, or painless. It wasn’t.
I’m healing now. Slowly. Honestly. Without pretending it didn’t hurt.
To the one who held me, and the one who let go—I see you. I grieve you. I'm letting go.
Not bitter. Not broken. Just walking forward, too.