Maybe it’s time to give up on love, at least for now. She’s gone for good, and I’m still here, clinging to the ghost of her warmth, pretending it’s real. I tried to be soft, sweet, gentle enough to steady her trembling. I was the lover boy who left the light on just in case she came back, writing poems deep into insomnia-soaked nights, memorizing her laughter like it was something sacred. And all of it for nothing. Now I sit among the dust of who we used to be, in a bed that feels too big for my grief. I gave everything, again and again, like a fool believing that loving harder might make her stay. I never gave up, not after the breakups, not after the heartbreak, not even after the lies, because love is something you’re not supposed to give up on. Not like she did. Each time, I hoped she’d be the one who stayed. But they always go. I’m exhausted. Tired of showing my wounds to people who never cared to heal them. Tired of dreaming up futures with people who only ever rest their heads before leaving again. I feel like love’s unwanted child, tender, yearning, and constantly abandoned. It takes what little I have to offer, whispers promises it never keeps, and leaves me lonelier than before. Still, I try to be softer. Gentler. Even after she left, even after I gave her everything. And now I hear her contemplating him, the one who hurt her for a decade. What was it about him that made her stay? Why couldn’t I be given even a fraction of that devotion? I think I’m done. Someone else can carry this heart now, if they care enough to hold it right. Just know, it bruises easily, and it begs in silence. I’m tired of giving so much just to be enough, for people who never notice how much it costs to be this soft.
