When I asked, why me?
Why do you love me?
You paused—
and in that breath,
something sacred broke.
Your silence spoke louder
than any tender word could have.
The seconds between my question
and your fumbling answer
felt like years—
years where I kept convincing myself
you did.
But your eyes looked away,
and I knew.
You were reaching for a feeling
you wanted to exist—
not one that actually did.
You said words that filled space,
but not my heart.
Empty syllables dressed as comfort,
carefully arranged to sound like love,
but too hollow to hold
I heard the truth
in everything you didn’t say.
You did not love me.
You loved the idea of being someone
who could.
And maybe that’s what hurt the most—
that I mistook your hesitation
for depth,
when it was really distance.
