After one of our quiet disconnects
the kind where the air grew cold but no one said why,
I decided to give him space.
Not as a punishment.
Not to manipulate anything.
Just to protect the last soft part of me that hadn't gone numb yet.
I told myself:
Let me step back. Let me let him feel the quiet.
If he cares, he'll reach out.
I waited.
No texts. No calls.
No showing up where I knew he'd be.
Just… distance.
And the hardest part?
I wasn't even angry.
I was just tired.
Tired of always being the one to restart things.
But he didn't come looking for me.
Not even once.
When I finally reached out, not to fight, just to talk
he sounded dismissive.
And then came the twist:
You didn't even ask of me."
I froze.
That's what he said.
As if I was the one who disappeared first.
As if all the times he had gone quiet had vanished from memory.
And just like that, I became the problem.
He didn't ask why I was distant.
Didn't wonder what I'd been feeling.
Just made it clear I had failed him, again.
I wanted to scream,
"I gave you space so I wouldn't lose my mind."
But I didn't.
Because I knew how the conversation would go.
I'd be called dramatic.
Or needy.
Or "too emotional again."
So instead, I softened my voice.
Said something gentle.
Apologized.
Let it go.
That moment was when I realized:
Nothing I did would ever be right.
Not loving too hard.
Not loving in silence.
Not loving from afar.
Nothing would make him choose me.
I thought silence would protect me.
But it just made me easier to forget.
I became the girl who ghosted herself,
hoping the absence would make him see me clearer.
It didn't.
And in that moment,
staring at my phone, rereading his message,
waiting for my body to stop shaking,
I knew I was done explaining my softness to someone
who only ever saw it as a flaw.
But knowing isn't the same as leaving.
I still woke up hoping he'd understand.
Still reached for my phone like maybe today would be different.
Still held space in my chest for the apology I'd never get.
Because walking away from someone you love
isn't a single decision.
It's a hundred small ones, made every day in silence.
It's choosing not to text even when your fingers itch.
It's deleting their number, then memorizing it anyway.
It's stopping yourself from rewatching old videos
just to hear their voice again.
Some days I felt strong.
Other days, I folded.
But I never let him see the folding.
That was mine.
That was sacred.
It hurt, yes.
But the hurt felt cleaner than the confusion.
Loneliness felt lighter than longing.
Because at least now, I was grieving someone who was gone,
not someone present,
But never really there.