To The One I Thought I Loved

How is it that I don’t remember you anymore, when once you were what I lived for?

I remember clearly how every day I was still trying to find the time — to call you, to text you, to email you. Now all of that feels like decades ago.

It’s been a while, I know. And it’s strange for me to sit here and write about you, when above all I wish I never had to remember you.

Things are going well. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. But I’ve learned not to worry the way I used to. There’s a kind of peace that comes from doing things calmly instead of desperately. What’s the point, if in the end everything finds its way to resolution. Life stresses people over the smallest things… but not me. Not anymore.

I’ve been writing about my past, and for the first time, I’ve had the space to really think. To see that everything that happened to me shaped who I am now. And you — not that long ago — shaped me into someone stronger than I ever thought I could be.

I hope you learned something too.

The last time I saw you, you were still buried in your usual problem — not having enough time. Always rushing. Always behind. As if somehow you were given fewer hours than the rest of us. It still makes me smile, the thought of you moving fast but never really getting anywhere.

And your organizational skills… like a four-year-old collecting drawings for show and tell.

You must be furious now, not being allowed to eat what you want. I’m glad, at least, that you have to pay attention to that — or that you’re still good at pretending you do. That’s what happens when you never learn to listen to your body early on.

I used to imagine you visiting me, seeing everything in its place… while your backpack was always a mess. I never understood how someone so composed could look so put together on the outside, when inside… you weren’t.

Don’t take this as criticism, the way you always did. It’s not. It’s observation. It’s me telling you how I saw you — even when the mask was still on.

I miss your voice. That’s a fact. The way it soothed me for no reason I could explain. The way you pronounced certain words. The way you ran out of breath at the end of a sentence, like you were still figuring out what to say while already saying it.

I believed you. Or maybe I just wanted to.

Because when I looked into your eyes, I knew. I knew what was true and what wasn’t. And I counted them, one by one… like it would matter someday. Like one day I would sit across from you and ask why.

I never did.

At night, I used to lie in bed and replay everything — your scent, your presence, the way you moved. And then the details would creep in — the ones I ignored. The discomfort. The things that didn’t sit right. The parts of you that never matched the image you tried to hold together.

I still wonder what it was that brought us together.

For me, it was your warmth. That achy voice of yours pulling me in… because I felt you had nothing, and I had everything to give.

That was the trap.

I see it clearly now.

What pulled me in wasn’t just you. It was what I thought you needed.

Your vulnerability. Your voice. Your stories. Your past. All of it made me feel like you were someone I could give everything to. Like you were carrying something heavy, and I could help you hold it.

I wasn’t loving you. I was trying to save you.

I worried about you like you were a child living inside a grown man’s life. Protecting you, excusing you, making space for things that should have never been acceptable.

You looked strong. You weren’t.

You were ashamed. You were overwhelmed. You were unprepared for the life you were living, and instead of facing it, you hid inside it.

You had dreams. I know you did.

But you buried them. Tucked them away somewhere safe where no one — not even you — would have to confront what you gave up. Maybe it felt selfish to want more. Maybe it felt impossible.

So you stayed where you were. And let everything else disappear instead.

I see that now.
I feel sorry for you.

Because you still don’t know how to separate your life from everything that controls it. And those dreams you buried are still there, fading quietly, exactly where you left them.

That is your life.

Not mine.

Maybe in another life, things would have been different.
But this was the life we had, and you still let it die.