There was a time I would’ve held the weight of his truth in the palms of my hands without flinching.
A time when love, in all its raw, unedited form, pulsed between us like something holy.
I made room…. wide, forgiving, honest room, for the deepest parts of him,
even the parts he couldn’t yet name.

He didn’t have to hide.
Not with me.
Not in the quiet between our conversations,
not in the curve of my neck when he lay beside me,
not in the way I kissed the places he didn’t even know he needed to be seen.

I whispered with my actions,
“You’re safe here.”
And still, he ran.

He carried his curiosities in silence, tucked beneath the surface of our intimacy,
like contraband emotion.
But I would’ve held it gently.
I would’ve stayed, not in spite of what he revealed, but because he finally did.
Because truth is beautiful when it’s brave.
And I craved that kind of bravery from him.

But he wasn’t ready.

He chose comfort over courage.
He chose a lie wrapped in convenience,
over a love that dared him to be known.

And now…
Now I’ve made peace with the silence.
The unanswered questions.
The realization that I was never the problem
Just the mirror he couldn’t look into for too long.

Yes, I still feel that tug,
that quiet hum of what if he comes back.
But it’s no longer a wish for him to return as he was.
It’s a whisper that says,
“If you come back, come real. Or don’t come at all.”

I am not waiting.
Not anymore.
I’ve built myself a life he wouldn’t recognize
one built from the honesty he couldn’t give me.

And while a conversation might still be owed,
my worth no longer hangs in the balance of his voice.
I was always enough.
Even when he couldn’t see it.
Even when he couldn’t say it.