You put me back together
just to break me—
in a way no one else has
in a very long time.
And I hate that.
I hate that you made me feel this way.
I hate that I believed you
when you said,
"I'll always be there."
I let you into the softest parts of me,
thinking I was finally safe.
You weren't just a friend—
you were family.
You were home.
And now I'm here again,
gathering the same old pieces,
bleeding at the seams,
trying to remember
how to rebuild
what you walked away from.
It wasn't supposed to be you.
Call it selfish—
but I needed you.
And you promised.
You made me believe
I wasn't too much.
You held me like I mattered.
Then made me feel like a weight
you had to set down
just to breathe.
Maybe I am a lot.
Maybe I feel too hard,
need too deeply.
But I never asked you to fix me.
I just needed you to stay.
Not forever.
Just long enough
to know I wasn't disposable.
But you left me
with silence,
with shaking hands,
with the quiet cruelty
of surviving without you—
again.
So I'll say it now:
I miss you.
I hate you for leaving.
And I love you still,
in the stupid, aching part of me
that keeps believing
when people say they won't go.
But I won't beg.
Not this time.
This is goodbye.
Even if you never read this—
I needed to say it.