It wasn't obvious.
It came quietly—soft, like everything else about him.
"I'll call you later… I'm busy," he said.
I smiled, like I always did, and waited patiently for a call that never came.
But I made excuses for him.
Maybe he was too busy, overwhelmed with work.
Maybe he forgot… that happens sometimes.
Maybe something urgent came up.
And that's how the pain started—
before I even realized it.
The promises he never kept.
The missed calls.
The broken plans.
The late replies.
And when I finally asked why he never picked my calls,
he said, "I hate calls."
But he had time for others.
He talked to them, listened to them, solved their problems.
Somehow… I still understood him.
I never showed him how hurt I was.
"You're different," he used to say.
"You don't stress me like others."
I thought it was a compliment.
I didn't realize then
that loving him would hurt this way.
That I would learn to expect less…
and settle for the bare minimum,
just to prove that I loved him—
just to show him I understood.
Even when he never noticed me.
The first time I cried because of him,
I hid it.
Not because I was strong—
but because I knew
he didn't care about my feelings.
And I didn't want to seem like a problem.
I wanted to be easy.
Easy to love.
Easy to keep.
Easy to stay with.
So I swallowed everything that hurt.
And acted like everything was fine.
And he?
He never noticed.
And when I finally told him,
he said,
"You know I'm trying.
You complain too much."
My eyes filled with tears.
How could loving you feel so wrong?
So heavy?
But instead of walking away…
I apologized.
One day he called me and said
"Get dressed. I'm coming to pick you tonight.
We're going on a date," he said softly.
And just like that,
my heart skipped a beat.
I was happy.
Too happy.
I got ready and waited for hours,
staring at my phone.
My heart was full of hope.
But he never came.
No call.
No message.
No explanation.
Then I started to worry.
Maybe something bad had happened.
I called—he didn't pick.
I sent a message.
He replied hours later.
"I tried to come, but something came up."
And somehow…
those words were enough to make me stay.
I don't know if this is love or punishment.
When did I start accepting less
and calling it patience?
When did I begin competing
with his work… and everyone else…
just to fit into his life?
When did I become someone
who begged to be loved?
I kept hoping he would change.
Maybe if I endured a little longer…
Maybe if I loved him more…
he would finally see me.
But the truth is—
love didn't destroy me all at once.
It happened slowly.
quietly.
Until one day…