You asked me why I still love you.
And I wanted to give you some complicated answer.
Something beautiful.
Something poetic.
Something that would make sense of the mess
I've made of my own heart.
But all I could say was—
"You feel like home."
And God,
I wish you understood
how much is hidden inside those three words.
Because you don't just feel like home.
You feel like
a sunny autumn afternoon
when the wind is cold
but the sun is warm enough
to make you forget you're freezing.
You feel like leaves changing colors,
like the whole world
decided to become beautiful
right before it dies.
You feel like coming home
after baking cookies
and the entire house smells like chocolate
and sugar
and warmth.
Like pulling one out of the oven
before it's had time to cool,
watching the chocolate melt between your fingers,
drinking milk beside it
and thinking—
yeah.
Maybe life isn't so bad.
That's what you were to me.
The moment
where life didn't feel so bad.
You could look at me
with those stupidly beautiful
chocolate-brown eyes
and somehow
everything hurting inside me
would go quiet.
You could hug me
and I swear
your arms knew exactly
how to hold together
every piece of me
that I couldn't.
And I'm not even a hugger.
But I'd stay in your arms forever
if you let me.
Because people leave.
That's what people do.
They leave when you're too much.
They leave when you're difficult.
They leave when loving you
requires patience.
And somehow—
you stayed.
For years.
You stayed when my mind
wasn't a safe place to live in.
You stayed when I didn't know
how to love you without hurting you.
And I need you to know—
I never wanted to hurt you.
Not once.
I wanted to love you.
That's it.
I wanted to love you
and stay yours
and wake up one day
and realize
we actually made it.
I wanted a future.
I wanted you.
And maybe that's why
I still can't let you go.
Because I lie.
I tell you I've stopped loving you.
I tell myself I've stopped loving you.
But every time your name appears,
there's still this little part of me
that thinks—
maybe.
Maybe one day.
Maybe you'll look at me differently.
Maybe you'll miss me
the way I miss you.
Maybe we'll get another chance.
And I know.
I know how delusional that sounds.
So I shove that hope
into the deepest corner of myself
and pretend I only want your friendship.
Because having you as a friend
hurts less than losing you completely.
But here's the truth—
I miss us.
Not the screaming.
Not the arguments.
Not the nights we made each other feel
like we weren't worth loving.
I miss the good parts.
I miss laughing with you.
I miss your hugs.
I miss being yours.
I miss the version of us
that thought forever
was actually possible.
And sometimes,
at two in the morning,
when the world is asleep
and my brain refuses to be,
I imagine us starting over.
No baggage.
No mistakes.
No old wounds.
Just you.
Just me.
And another chance.
But then reality walks into the room
and reminds me—
you don't want that.
And I'm terrified.
Because one day
you're going to find someone.
And she's going to become
the person you call
when you're happy.
The person you reach for
when you're sad.
The person you kiss goodnight.
The person you build a life with.
And I'm going to have to learn
how to watch that happen
without falling apart.
You tell me there are other guys like you.
There aren't.
There never will be.
Because I'm not looking for
someone who has your eyes.
I'm looking for the way
your eyes made me feel.
I'm not looking for someone
who can hug me.
I'm looking for the way
your arms felt like home.
And how the hell
am I supposed to find that twice?
So no—
I don't want to let go.
Not yet.
Maybe that's selfish.
Maybe it's stupid.
Maybe someday
I'll finally be ready.
But right now,
I want to keep
this little piece of you
that still lives inside me.
Not because I think
you're coming back.
But because loving you
was real.
And even if I never get
to love you the way I wanted to,
even if someone else
gets the future
I spent years dreaming about,
I hope she knows
what she has.
Because she will be lucky.
So fucking lucky.
Because I know what it's like
to be loved by you.
And I know what it's like
to lose you.
And if I have to choose
between pretending
I never loved you
or admitting
that some part of me
always will—
I'll choose the truth.
You were home.
You are still home.
And maybe that's the cruelest part
of loving someone
you can't have anymore.
You can move out.
You can change the locks.
You can build a life
somewhere else.
But sometimes—
your heart still remembers
the way home felt.