She always helped people.
She had learned early that it made them like her.
She gave smiles, advice, her time, her heart— pieces of herself to make others whole.

Her friends grew close.
They traded secrets for hers.
It was always an exchange.
Her help for their affection.
She quickly understood:
She could make anyone like her.

So she helped more,
even when no one asked,
because happy people made her happy.
Happiness felt transactional—
she gave something to get something in return.

She could always find a problem.
She could always fix it.
Sometimes the piece she gave wasn’t good enough.
It didn’t completely cover their holes.
So she would cut another piece to make up for it.

She thought love worked the same way:
If she gave enough, people would love her.
It became her purpose.

Some holes were too big to fill,
and her pieces weren’t enough.
So she gave more.
And more.
Until the holes in her became too large to ignore.

One day, she looked at her reflection.
The gaping holes stared back.
She was frayed at the edges.
Her fabric was threadbare.

She unraveled herself into ***** of string, delicate, painful pieces of her past:
the split homes,
the distant father,
the overwhelmed mother,
the detached brother.
She pulled it all out,
thinking no one would want those parts.

Those who cared told her to stop.
“Piece yourself back together,” they said.
It made her angry.
She didn’t know how.

Still, she tried.
Slowly, she began sewing the fragments.
At first, the stitches were uneven.
Her hands shook.
The thread snapped.
She sewed anyway.

She learned the difference between giving and losing.
Between helping and sacrificing.
Between love and transactions.

She discovered that her worth didn’t come from being needed.
That love wasn’t something she had to earn.
That her purpose wasn’t to patch others at her own expense.

One day, she looked at her reflection again.
The holes were still there,
but they were smaller now.
She had filled them with care,
not with pieces torn away.
She wasn’t whole yet,
but she wasn’t unraveling either.
And for the first time,
That was enough.

You’ve been there—
in the silence, in the noise,
in the moments when words failed her.

You never asked for explanations,
never needed a reason to stay.
You just knew—
what to say, when to listen,
when to stay with her in the mess of it all.

Through every storm,
every mistake,
every version of her she's been,
you stood beside her,
steady as ever.

Others don’t always understand your quiet,
the way you let the world move around you
without demanding to be seen.
They miss the humor in your words,
the strange knowledge you carry,
the way your mind wanders into places
most people never think to go.

But she sees you.
She hears you.
And she will always listen.

There are things only you and her
seem to see the same way,
truths unspoken but understood,
woven into late-night talks.

You are not perfect—
neither is she—
but in a world that often misunderstands,
You meet in the space between words,
where no explanations are needed,
where thoughts flow freely.

Though you do not hold her heart in a romantic sense,
you know her and it better than anyone.
You hold more of her secrets than anyone,
always treading carefully to her appreciation.
She sees strength in you—even when you do not see it yourself.

You, who handles her harsh truths with careful understanding
Who wishes to learn what turns her mind
Who supports her without asking for anything in return,
Who opens her mind to new horizons she never would have explored.

Yours is not a story of longing,
but of knowing,
of minds that find each other
when the rest of the world
feels just a little too far.

She doesn't say it enough,
but she sees it.
She sees you.
And she is grateful,
for always being her rock.

She was never a delicate thing,
never built for gilded cages
or paths paved by someone else’s hands.

She walked where the ground was uneven,
where the air smelled of rain and reckoning,
where silence spoke louder than words.

And you—
you never tried to pull her back,
never told her to be smaller, quieter,
never asked her to trade her fire for something softer.

You just walked beside her,
matching her steps without needing to lead.
You saw the weight she carried,
the exhaustion behind her eyes.

You never offered easy answers,
never tried to paint over the cracks.
You just listened, understood,
let her be without demanding change.

The world had taught her to be cautious,
to expect hands that only stayed
when they had something to hold.

But you—
you stayed with nothing to take,
with no need to claim her story as your own.

Not to save her.
Not to fix her.

Not to make yourself the reason she stood tall.
But because that’s who you are.
Not a shadow lurking, waiting for more.

Not a figure demanding to be seen.
But something steady, something real—
the kind of hero no one writes stories about,
but the kind who matters most.

Your hurtful actions were paper cuts,
Small, unintentional.
Overtime they built up
Now, every memory she touches
Stings like an open wound.

What began as paper-thin pain
Has torn gashes deep in her heart.
It bleeds, unseen,
At least it’s only on the inside.

She was told had a big heart,
you wrung it dry,
A shriveled thing, brittle as a raisin.

She tried to breathe life back into it,
Rejuvenating it with sweat from restless hands,
Work a veil, a shield against you.

For a moment, she thought she healed—
Felt the fullness return, ripe as a grape,
Until your shadow crept back in,
Once more, it withered.

This time, she let her tears do the watering,
Let herself grieve what you stole.
Some things don’t grow back the same—
Sweetness was stolen when you reaped what you did not sow.

She never meant to be the snake,
to tempt you with something forbidden.
You bit into her like an apple,
Consumed what you never planned to keep.

So choke on the bitterness—
It’s all that’s left for you.
You will never taste her heart again.

It's funny how we used to joke about birthdays,
How "You're not invited to mine" was our favorite tease.

That time had long passed.

When her birthday finally came,
She waited—eyes fixed on midnight—
For that one text.

She.
The girl who had his home phone number stuck to her wall
Because he didn’t have a cell.
Who called when he was sick,
Felt the world dim on the days he wasn’t at school.
Gathered his forgotten sweater,
Found warmth in no hug but his.
Loved him more deeply than she thought possible,
Stayed alive just to see his face again.

She.
The one to end
The relationship,
The friendship.
The connection.

The girl who stupidly still hoped-

The text never came.

She wanted him to come see her perform
To witness how happy she was without him
See that she had moved on

She told her friends, "If he shows up, I'll punch him."
They swore if she didn’t, they would.
She laughed along,
Knowing she wouldn't have

The little girl from her past was crying
Watching how different she had become
The girl didn't understand
She just wanted her friend to be proud of her.

She hated how she searched the audience every night,
Knowing you wouldn't be there.