Aquarius

There are some people who enter your life and change everything. That’s what it felt like with you. I wasn’t expecting to meet someone that night, especially not someone who would stay with me—in memory, in heartbreak, in growth—the way you have. It felt like the world shifted just enough to let us cross paths. You approached me at a bar I almost didn’t go to, in a city neither of us lived in, and somehow, it felt like fate. From the moment we met, you had this calm energy, this confidence, this charm that was hard to look away from. And when you looked at me, really looked at me, it terrified me. Because somewhere deep down, I didn’t believe I deserved it.

That night was magic. Brunch the next morning, the way we talked and laughed like old friends, the time that disappeared between us—it was the best date I’ve ever had. Nothing has ever come close. I still remember everything: the food, the drinks, the way I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to ask you to stay longer, but I didn’t want to seem needy, so I let you go. Then came the baseball game, more bars, more conversation, and finally, that night in the hotel. It felt like a fantasy. And maybe it was. Because at that point, it was still easy to choose each other. The hard parts hadn’t come yet. The trauma hadn’t surfaced. The wounds hadn’t opened. We hadn’t yet learned how deeply we were capable of hurting each other.

I struggled to believe that someone like you could truly choose me. I questioned it from the start, even when everything was going well. My insecurities made me doubt your intentions, your faithfulness, your sincerity. I thought, why me? Out of everyone you could have had—why would you want me? And those thoughts didn’t just live quietly in the background. They showed up in how I treated you, how I communicated, how I pulled away just enough to protect myself while also hoping you’d fight for me. I know I caused pain. I lied. I acted out of fear. I overreached, and I crossed boundaries I wish I hadn’t. And for a long time, I carried shame for what I did to you. I thought it was my job to heal you because I had broken something in you. That wasn’t the first time I felt that way in a relationship, but it was the first time it broke me to try.

So I punished myself. I gave everything I had, trying to make up for what I had done. I overcompensated. I lit myself on fire to keep you warm. And still, you pulled away. Not all at once. You didn’t walk out with a goodbye. Instead, you stayed in the grey. You left without leaving. You led me on—not just once, but again and again. Every time you were drinking or feeling vulnerable, you’d reach out, say something tender, send a song, drop hints that made me think there was still hope for us. But when the morning came, you’d take it all back. You’d ghost me. You’d go cold. You’d say you couldn’t do this, that you were exhausted. And it confused the hell out of me.

You told me we didn’t work, but then you’d leave the door cracked open just enough for me to stay. You didn’t give me clarity—you gave me false hope. And every time I tried to address it, you brushed it off. You said you “realized it too late,” but that’s not true. I told you a year before what was happening. I named the patterns. I asked for clarity, for honesty, for accountability. You just didn’t want to see it. Or maybe you weren’t ready to. And when I asked for closure, you told me you were too emotionally exhausted to even try. But we hadn’t argued. We hadn’t fought. That exhaustion wasn’t from me—but you let me carry it anyway.

I needed more than vague gestures. I needed you to be clear. And you weren’t. You told me you made your choice, but then you sent me a song. You said it wasn’t going to work, but you kept showing up in ways that made it impossible for me to move on. If you had already let me go, you shouldn’t have kept pulling me back. That wasn’t love. That was fear. That was comfort. That was you not wanting to be alone, while making sure I was still tethered to you just enough to not walk away.

But I finally am. I’m not waiting anymore. I’m not hoping you’ll wake up one day and realize what we could have been. I’ve accepted that you didn’t choose me—and I respect that. But I also know that love isn’t just about fate. It’s about free will. It’s about choosing each other, even when it’s hard, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when the past haunts you. And you didn’t choose me. Not really. Not when it mattered.

Still, I want you to know this: you taught me something. You taught me how to love unconditionally. You showed me what it feels like to be fully present with someone, even if only for a short time. And you helped me realize that I am capable of deep love—messy, flawed, real love. I just didn’t know how to hold it yet. And now, I do. So thank you. For the lesson. For the magic. For the pain that pushed me into growth.

Maybe in another lifetime, we get it right. Maybe we choose each other with the same courage we had that first night, before the fear and doubt and damage took over. But in this life, I’m choosing peace. I’m choosing to let you go—with softness, not bitterness. With clarity, not confusion. With love, not longing.

You’ll always have a piece of me.