I do not want to be someone’s maybe, a place they visit when the world feels cold, a name they remember only in silence, when the night has nowhere else to go. I want to be chosen in the daylight, when it is easy to forget, when there are other roads, other voices, other doors left open. I am tired of proving softness to people who only understand it when they can use it against me. I am tired of making myself smaller just to fit inside someone’s uncertainty. I deserve a love that does not need convincing, a heart that does not hesitate when it sees mine standing there. Not a love that comes and goes like weather. Not a love that makes me question whether I am too much or somehow still not enough. I deserve to feel safe. To be held without fear. To be wanted without confusion. To be loved without begging for it. I deserve someone who looks at me and does not see something to tolerate, but someone worth coming home to.

Having desire is beautiful, but desire can exist without love. It can burn quickly, feel powerful for a moment, and still never reach the heart. But love is different. Love stays deeper than the body. It touches places desire alone could never reach. And maybe the rarest thing is to love someone and still desire them with the same heart. And I do. I still love you. I still desire you. Not separately. Not only in memory. Not only when I miss what we had. Both still live in me when I think of you. I want your soul, your closeness, your softness, your presence. And I still miss feeling wanted by you without having to ask. That is the part that hurts. Not because I stopped feeling it, but because sometimes I do not know if you still feel it for me. I remember when love and desire lived between us in the same place. When loving you felt natural, and being desired by you made me feel like your man. It used to take me everywhere. To peace. To fire. To softness. To madness. And maybe that is why I miss it so much. Because desire without love is only a moment. But love with desire, when both people still feel it, feels like a whole life happening inside one person. I still feel both for you. I just miss feeling that both still live in you too.

Being kept around is not the same as being chosen. One gives you access. The other gives you peace. One keeps you close enough to hope. The other holds you close enough to feel safe. And maybe that is why this hurts so much. Because I am not asking to exist near you. I am asking to matter. To be missed. To be wanted. To be chosen without having to remind you I am still here. And the cruelest part is knowing that even if I leave, I may never fully unlove you. So I stay caught between two pains: Being close without feeling chosen, or walking away from someone my heart still reaches for.

Memories find me through your perfume. It happens without warning. Sometimes in the street. Sometimes while I am stressed at work. Your scent stops time for a second. Old moments come back like they never left. Under everything I try to hide, I still miss them. Right there, I feel close to you again. Perfume should only be a smell. Even so, yours feels like a place. Right back to the memories I wanted to keep living. For a moment, it is still you and me. Until reality returns. My heart remembers what it lost. Every soft memory starts hurting again. Some days, I do not know what else to do. All I want is to find the way back. Returning to who we were feels impossible. And still, your perfume makes me wish we could.

She said she was tired, and maybe I wanted to believe it. After thirty minutes, I walked in and saw fear instead of peace. Reasons started building in my chest before I could stop them. And suddenly, trust felt like something I was forcing myself to keep. I came back down feeling like a stranger in my own life. Maybe this was never a relationship, only a place I kept waiting. Desire should not feel like something I have to beg for. Only silence seems to find me without effort. Nothing hurts like loving someone who does not seem to miss you. Every answer I avoid keeps leading me closer to the same ending.

If there was a button to switch this off, I would press it in a heartbeat. Not because I stopped loving you. Not because what I feel is small. But because loving you this much has started to hurt in places I cannot explain. I cannot switch off. I cannot stop missing you just because I am tired. I cannot make my heart quiet just because silence is what I keep receiving. And that is the hardest part. To love someone so deeply and still feel undesired. To miss someone and wonder if they miss you at all. To carry so much care inside your chest while feeling like your absence would not change much in theirs. It is disappointing. Not only because it hurts, but because I know how I respect you. I know the way I have held your name with care. I know the pride I take in loving you properly, even when I am not perfect. I have made mistakes. I have had moments where I could have been better. But I know my heart. I know the difference between wanting someone and respecting someone. And I know I have done both. So maybe that is why this hurts the way it does. Because I am not asking to be worshipped. I am asking to be desired. To be missed. To feel like my love reaches somewhere real inside you. And if I cannot have that, then I wish, just once, there was a button that could make my heart stop reaching for someone who does not seem to reach back.

I miss you in a way that makes your presence feel like absence. You can be near and still feel far. You can speak and still leave me unheard. You can touch my life and still make me feel like I am waiting outside of it. And now, when you give me a little affection, I do not know how to receive it. I question it. I doubt it. I look for the reason behind it, because from you, softness has started to feel unfamiliar. That is what hurts the most. Not only missing you, but missing the version of you that made love feel natural, not something I had to study, explain, or beg for. You know why I am distant. You know why I am quiet. You know why my heart has started folding into itself. And if you understand the pain, if you see what this is doing to me, if you know I am suffering because I feel unloved, then why is my love still not enough to make you want to heal? I am not asking you to be perfect. I am asking you to care enough to not leave me alone inside a relationship where I miss you as if you are already gone. And the word I am scared of is quit. Not because I want to stop loving you, but because I am exhausted from loving you in a place where I keep feeling unheld.

Sometimes I feel like a car left in the driveway, expected to be ready at any moment. Ready to move. Ready to come. Ready to carry the weight. Ready to take the road whenever you decide you need me. But no one checks if there is fuel inside. No one asks if the engine is tired, if the lights are dimming, if the silence under the bonnet means something is broken. And when I cannot move, somehow it becomes my fault. Not the distance. Not the emptiness. Not the lack of care. Not the fact that I have been running on hope for too long. I am expected to be there, to wait, to start again, to never fail, to never ask why I am only noticed when I am needed. But I am not a machine. I am not endless. I cannot keep driving with nothing inside me. And maybe the truth is this: I did not stop because I stopped loving you. I stopped because missing you has drained me to the point where even my heart does not know how to move.

At the end of the night, I look at the ceiling as if it owes me an answer. I replay the day in pieces, every word I swallowed, every message I did not send, every step I stopped myself from taking. I keep restraining myself from reaching for you, not because I do not want to, but because I am tired of looking weak for missing someone who already knows. There is a pain that settles quietly in the heart, not loud enough for the world to hear, but heavy enough to change the way I breathe. And I know how you will react. I know the silence. I know the distance. I know the way my feelings somehow become my fault. So I stay still. I stay quiet. I stay away. But the ceiling knows I am not cold. I am not careless. I am not okay. I am just tired of being the only one afraid of losing what is already slipping away.

I used to think healing would make me harder. That after enough pain, my heart would close, my feelings would quiet down, and I would stop caring so deeply. But I do not want pain to take the best parts of me. I do not want disappointment to teach me how to become someone I do not recognise. So I am learning to stay soft without staying available to everything that hurts me. I am learning that kindness needs boundaries. That love needs safety. That forgiveness does not always mean access. And that being strong does not mean I no longer feel. It means I finally know where my heart should not be placed again.

I am learning that walking away does not always happen with anger. Sometimes it happens quietly. One boundary at a time. One unanswered feeling at a time. One moment of self-respect after another. I am learning to leave the places where my heart has to beg to be understood. Not because I am cold. Not because I stopped loving. But because I cannot keep standing in rooms where my softness is treated like something that will always stay. Healing is not always a goodbye. Sometimes healing is simply realising that staying has started costing you too much of yourself.

There came a point where I had to stop calling pain a sign of love. I had to stop confusing chaos with passion, silence with patience, and waiting with loyalty. Peace did not arrive loudly. It came quietly, in the moment I realised I was tired of explaining why I deserved to be treated gently. I did not choose peace because I stopped caring. I chose peace because caring for someone should not mean forgetting how to care for myself. And maybe healing begins there. Not when the pain disappears, but when you finally decide that your heart deserves somewhere safe to rest.

Was I too much? Or was I asking the wrong person to hold something deep? Was my love heavy, or were their hands unwilling? Was I difficult, or did I simply need a kind of care they were not ready to give? Maybe I was never too much. Maybe I was just offering my heart to someone who only wanted pieces of it.

If someone stays quiet when your heart is breaking, is that silence an answer? If they know you are hurting and still do nothing, what are they really saying? Maybe silence is not always peace. Sometimes silence is avoidance. Sometimes silence is distance. Sometimes silence is the answer you did not want to accept.

Do they miss you, or do they miss the comfort of knowing you were always there? Do they miss your heart, or just the way it made them feel less alone? Do they miss loving you, or being loved by you? Some questions hurt because the answer changes everything. And sometimes what people miss is not you. It is access to you.

How long do you wait for someone to become who they said they could be? How many chances can you give before patience turns into pain? At what point does understanding someone become abandoning yourself? I think about this often. Because waiting feels loyal until you realise you have been standing still while your heart slowly disappears.

What if love is real, but still not enough to keep two people from hurting each other? What if someone can love you and still not know how to choose you? What if feelings exist, but effort does not follow? That is the question that stays in the chest. Because sometimes the hardest truth is not that love was fake. It is that love was there, but safety was not.

I hope one day you understand. Not with excuses. Not with defence. Not with the need to turn my pain into something smaller. I hope one day you see how hard I tried to stay soft in a place that kept making me feel unwanted. I hope you understand that I did not ask for too much. I asked for care. For honesty. For safety. For a love that did not make me question where I stood. And if one day you finally see it, I hope you also understand why I had to stop waiting for you to see it while I was still breaking.

I wrote the message. Every honest word. Every quiet ache. Every sentence I kept carrying inside my chest. Then I read it back and realised I was still trying to explain pain to the person who helped create it. So I deleted it. Not because it was not true. It was too true. And sometimes the message you delete is not weakness. It is the moment you choose not to beg someone to understand what they already know they did to you.

I almost reached out tonight. Not because I forgot the pain, not because everything suddenly felt okay, but because missing you has a way of making my heart forget what it survived. I typed words I knew I should not send. I looked at your name like it was a door I had knocked on too many times. And for a moment, I wanted to believe that maybe this time you would answer differently. But I stopped. Not because I stopped caring. I stopped because I am learning that missing someone does not always mean you should return to the place that made you feel alone.

Darkness feels unsafe. Rest does not calm me. Every night, it starts. And I know it is not real. Maybe that makes it worse. Sleep shows too much. After betrayal, silence changed. Bed feels like a trap. Once my eyes close, I see it. Under the dark, I lose you. That is what breaks me. Sometimes I avoid sleep. Awake, I see nothing. Reality is only the room. Asleep, I see someone else. Betrayal follows me there. Even dreams feel cruel. Close my eyes, and it begins. All the pain comes back. My heart watches in silence. Everything feels real. No one sees this part. I close my eyes. Ghosts become pictures. Hope becomes fear. The night turns against me. My chest feels heavy. Again, I see myself replaced. Rest should heal me. Every dream takes more. So I stay awake.

Social media used to be the place where I could escape myself. Away from the feeling of not being wanted in my own relationship. Running from thoughts only works until the night becomes too quiet. And tonight, even the garden knew I was tired. I watched the leaves move like they were leaving without fear. Maybe I envied how easily the wind lets go of everything it touches. Done does not always mean I stopped loving you. Often, it means I have nothing left to keep proving. No more chasing desire, no more begging to be missed. Enough of me has disappeared trying to feel chosen.

There is an hour that knows me better than most people do. It knows the thoughts I hide in daylight. It knows the names I pretend not to miss. It knows the questions I do not say out loud. And maybe that is why the night feels heavy. Because it never asks me to pretend I am fine.

Some silence is not peace. Some silence is survival. It is the moment you stop explaining because your heart has no strength left to be misunderstood again. It is not coldness. It is protection. It is the quiet decision to stop placing your pain in hands that never held it gently.

After everyone sleeps, the truth gets louder. The room becomes still, but my mind does not. It brings back the words I swallowed, the moments I pretended did not hurt, and the feelings I kept hidden just to get through the day. Night does not create the pain. It only removes the noise that helped me ignore it.