I wanted to thank him.
That's how it started.
After everything, the hospital runs, the test payments, I felt I owed him something.
Not because he asked.
But because I thought gratitude might translate to love.
Because part of me believed:
If I show how much I appreciate him… maybe he'll finally see me.
So I planned it carefully.
I saved up.
Picked out gifts I thought he'd like, simple, thoughtful things.
A belt. A diffuser.
Not too much. Not too loud. Just... warm.
I was going to hand them to him in person.
Say thank you. Smile.
And then,
end it.
That was the plan.
I told myself the gifts were part of my closure.
A gesture to soften the goodbye.
To show I wasn't angry, just done.
I imagined walking in, handing him the items,
and gently saying something like:
"I know this started casually, but I can't do it anymore."
"I want more than this."
I rehearsed it in my head.
Even practiced smiling through it.
But the day came…
and I didn't go.
Not with the gifts.
Not with the speech.
I froze.
Because a part of me still wanted to be chosen.
Still wanted him to call me back in.
To stop me mid-sentence and say,
"Don't go."
And when I didn't show up at his house,
He didn't ask why.
Didn't ask if I was okay.
Didn't say anything at all.
Just silence.
As if I'd never said I was coming.
As if I didn't matter enough to miss.
That's when it hit me:
I was always the one giving.
Time. Emotion. Energy. Presence.
And in return, I got… access.
Not intimacy. Not love.
Just access.
I never gave him those gifts.
They stayed in my drawer for weeks.
Untouched. Still in their packaging.
And every time I saw them, I felt stupid.
Not because I bought them.
But because I bought them for someone who would never hold space for me.
I thought I was being kind.
Mature.
Like I could close this chapter gracefully, without resentment.
Like I could walk away with my dignity intact if I just handled it "the right way."
But closure doesn't come from gift-giving.
It doesn't come from carefully worded goodbyes.
Especially when the other person never offered you the truth to begin with.
I kept thinking maybe he was just emotionally slow.
Maybe he didn't know how to express things.
Maybe he cared in ways he couldn't say.
But no matter how I turned it in my head,
the facts didn't change:
He let me give.
Let me pour.
Let me plan, and love, and hope.
And never once did he try to meet me there.
Sometimes silence isn't absence.
Sometimes it's an answer.
And that was the hardest part to accept.
That his quiet wasn't confusion.
It wasn't fear.
It was disinterest.
I used to think that if someone didn't hurt you loudly, it didn't count.
But now I know,
there's a violence in being emotionally unseen.
In being allowed to give everything, while receiving just enough to stay,
but never enough to grow.
I eventually took those gifts out of the drawer.
Not to give them to someone else.
Not to use them.
Just to remind myself:
I had a good heart.
I meant well.
And even though he didn't hold space for it,
I still do.