Some mornings, you wake up feeling brave.
Not because it stopped hurting,
but because you finally find the courage to say out loud what your soul has been crying in silence.
This is a story without a happy ending,
but it carries a truth that burns and heals at the same time.
And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
I woke up brave.
With my chest raw, but without fear.
I had finally spoken the words my soul had been holding for weeks.
Hoping that, by opening the door, a little light would enter.
And what I got was a “I’m sorry.”
Just that.
Two words.
As if everything I felt could be wrapped in apology and tossed into the sea.
And today it hurts.
Because I shouldn’t have to convince anyone that I’m beautiful.
That I’m worthy.
That I deserve to be chosen.
I shouldn’t have to force anyone to want to stay.
Or to want to care for me.
Or to share their life with me.
Or to make space for me in their dreams.
I don’t want a life where I have to beg for scraps of affection.
I don’t want to be the one who always has to shine brighter just to be seen.
Or the one who settles in the corner of someone else’s life,
waiting to be given a place.
Because love shouldn’t hurt this much.
And wanting to share a life shouldn’t feel like a negotiation.
He offered me friendship,
part-time company,
and conditional happiness…
if it came with someone else.
And how cruel that sounds when you’re in love.
Where are those words now?
The ones that sounded like hidden promises:
“When I have my boat, you’ll be there with me.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
I remember the silences that weren’t uncomfortable,
but full.
The looks that seemed to say what his mouth refused to.
The times I truly believed this was mutual.
The moments I felt like a woman — seen, desired.
The times I felt that yes, he felt it too.
And still today…
Despite everything.
Despite the silence, the “I’m sorry,”
a part of me still imagines that one day he’ll wake up and say:
“I like you. I’m not sure I want a relationship,
but I do want to get to know you more.
To let things flow… to see where this could go.”
I still secretly hope he’ll offer me the place of his Plus One.
That he’ll say yes, that he’s curious enough to try — to explore this “us” that never was.
But his I’m sorry doesn’t sound like that.
His I’m sorry sounds like:
“I don’t feel anything for you. It’s over. It doesn’t exist anymore. Go live your life.”
And here I am, emptying myself.
Picking up, one by one, the dreams:
Morocco, the boat, Emma, Spain, Italy… European visa … night under the stars …my jeep
All those scenes I built with him — and without him.
And yes, I know he’ll do it all.
I know his life will go on and shine — even if I’m no longer in it.
And me… I’ll return to my cave.
To store this love with no destination,
like someone keeping a letter with no return address.
Because in the end,
even if he says I’m sorry,
the one who truly feels it… is me.
And even if it seems like, through writing, I’m trying to convince someone — maybe him, maybe myself —
all I’m really doing is writing.
Writing to empty myself.
To refill the space as many times as needed,
until every tear hurts a little less…
until it stops hurting at all.
Until I can feel again — without fear, without knots.
Until I can look forward without searching for him in everything.
