Eleven years.
That’s not a phase.
That’s not a fling.
That’s not “we tried.”
That’s building a life around someone.
You met me when I was all in. When loving someone wasn’t strategic it was instinct. When if I chose you, I chose you completely. No half measures. No backup plans.
You used to say that’s what you loved about me.
How steady I was.
How I showed up.
How I didn’t run when things got hard.
You found me in that loyalty.
And you left me there.
Valentine’s Days came and went like regular Tuesdays.
Anniversaries felt optional.
Grand gestures weren’t even the expectation — just acknowledgment. Just presence.
I became the person everyone needed.
The dependable one.
The one who answered the call.
The one who showed up at 2am.
The one who held everything together quietly.
But when I needed you?
Silence.
You didn’t cheat (at least that I know of) in some dramatic movie-scene way.
You didn’t explode the relationship in one catastrophic moment.
I kept thinking if I stayed steady enough, you would meet me there.
You just slowly stopped showing up.
And somehow that hurts more.
Because I kept loving you the same way you met me.
Consistent.
Committed.
Certain.
Instead, you stepped back while I stood still.
You abandoned me in the very place you found me,
in my loyalty.
in my patience.
in my willingness to fight for us even when you stopped fighting for me.
And the worst part?
I hate you.
I hate that I kept shrinking my needs so you wouldn’t feel pressured to grow.
I hate that I convinced myself that being “low maintenance” was strength when really it was survival.
I hate that holidays became something I pretended not to care about because you didn’t.
You left me holding the same heart you once said made me special.
Still loving.
Still steady.
Still willing.
Just finally aware.
You didn’t destroy me.
But you did teach me that love without reciprocity is just slow abandonment.
And I won’t live there again