Losing Myself in Loving You

I didn’t notice it at first

how I started setting myself aside

piece by piece,

to make more room for you.

I loved you like tending a garden

that never grew—

watering, waiting, hoping,

calling it devotion

even when my hands were always empty.

I kept trying to earn warmth

from a flame that barely flickered

leaning in so close

I didn’t realize I was burning.

You didn’t have to say you loved me less.

I felt it

in the way I learned to quiet myself,

to shrink around your silences,

to treat my needs

like inconveniences.

I mistook being unseen

for being patient.

I mistook being uncared for

as something I could fix

if I just tried harder.

But love shouldn’t require disappearing.

The hardest part

was admitting I had been lonely

the entire time

lonely while sharing a room,

lonely while saying goodnight,

lonely while holding you

and hoping you’d hold me back.

The moment I knew

was small

quiet

almost nothing at all.

Just me,

hearing my own voice

say I don’t feel loved here

and realizing I believed it.

And once I heard myself,

I couldn’t unhear it.

So when I left,

I didn’t feel triumphant.

I felt like I was gathering pieces—

soft ones,

tender ones,

the parts of myself I had forgotten

I deserved to keep.

And slowly,

I began to come back

to my own voice,

my own warmth,

my own name.

I didn’t lose you.

I lost myself trying to love you.

And that was the day

I finally chose me.