Because our half-lived love story is killing me

 

Burn like an inferno—like hell, I care. Loving you so passionately was anything but fair. It was reckless. Consuming. A kind of madness that curled into my skin and made a home there. I gave in to you, not softly, not gracefully, but like a storm crashing against cliffs, knowing I'd break myself in the process.

This thing between you and me—my words fall flat to define it. Are you the ocean and am I the shore? That sounds too poetic for something this violent, this unfinished. We’re so close we can hear each other's breathing across cities. And yet we never seem to stay in each other’s lives. It's maddening. There are days I crave you like oxygen. I want you in my life, in my bed, your breath on my neck, your hands claiming every inch of me. And then there are days I want to run. I want you to vanish so I don’t have to feel this unbearable pull.

And the worst part? Your love. It's quiet. Graceful. Mature. It grows even when I don’t water it. You love me without asking for anything in return. Without boundaries. Without expectations. You love me like no man ever has. Like no man can.

But the truth? I’m scared. Terrified. Of the parts of you, you keep hidden. I’ve seen shadows of them, just once. You weren’t the intelligent, calm, collected man I’ve known for two decades. You were sharp. Cold. Unrecognizable. The way you held my hand—possessive, forceful—it didn’t feel like you wanted me. It felt like you wanted to own me. A part of me hated it. A part of me... couldn’t look away. And in that confusion, I knew I had to walk away.

It was not easy. It tore me apart.

By then, you had given me everything the woman in me longed for—trust, love, respect, tenderness, brutal honesty, wild-soul-shaking sex, and a vision of a life that didn’t seem like a fantasy anymore. And then, just like that, it all evaporated. Evaporated like it had never existed. I was livid. I wanted the version of you I carried in my head to be real, to be permanent. But how could I expect that, when I’ve changed so much, so many times in the past five years? It was cruel of me to demand that you stay the same.

I remember every word you said that night. The only night you ever truly fought me. You were raw. You called me selfish. Said I failed you. That you needed me to hold you, and I pushed you away. That night was fire. That night was hell. We both burnt in it.

And I know—when I'll post this, when I'll let these words drift into the digital void—you'll read it. With your morning coffee, between your meetings, while lying in bed with that far-off look in your eyes. You'll scroll back to our old WhatsApp chat. You always do. And yet... you won’t call. You never f*cking call. You’ll let it sit in your chest like a weight. You’ll let it ache. And I’ll hate you for it.

But, please, prove me wrong. Pick up the phone. Say something. Anything. Please.

Are you and I done? I don’t know. I hope not. I pray not.

I seethe with anger. I ache with love. I burn with the hope that maybe—just maybe—you feel the same way too.

P.S. Don’t you dare wear that olive green T-shirt tonight. Not while reading this. Not while pretending you’re okay.