I gave him everything—my love, my time, the deepest parts of my soul—only to watch him walk away as if none of it had ever mattered. I held on, clinging to the unraveling threads of what we once were, pleading for him to see me, to understand that all I ever wanted was to be loved the way I loved him. But he never did. Or perhaps he did and simply chose not to care.

   That, more than anything, is what shatters me. Not that he left, but the ease with which he did it. The effortless way he discarded me, as if the love I had given was an anchor rather than a gift. As if my presence had become a weight he could no longer bear. He called me possessive, as though wanting to be prioritized by the man I adored was some kind of crime. As though the sin of my devotion had made me unworthy of his affection.

   I wish I could tell myself that the ache would subside quickly, that the void he left behind would fill itself overnight. But I know better. Grief is a patient thing. It seeps into the marrow of my bones, coils itself around my heart, and lingers in every quiet moment where he used to exist. The echoes of his voice still haunt me, the ghost of his warmth still lingers in places where he once stood.

   But this is not my undoing.

   Right now, it feels as though he has taken pieces of me with him, as if I am something lesser in his absence. But I refuse to believe that anymore. He only left with the love I gave him, and if he could cast it aside so carelessly, then he was never worthy of it to begin with.

   I am still here. I am still whole. And one day, when the sorrow dulls and this pain is nothing but a distant memory, I will see what I could not before.

   I loved fiercely. I gave everything. And still, despite the wreckage he left behind, I remain.

   He told me to move on?

   Then I will. Not because he told me to, but because he no longer deserves to be a part of my story.

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