The selflessly selfish woman. She is a paradox in motion, love offered freely, recklessly, like an open door swinging wide for all who approach, even those who never deserved to knock. Her warmth floods the room, soft and golden, but when love is returned,when someone dares to fill her heart placed in a porcelain cup, she recoils. She’s a healer, a nurse of tender things. She knows how to soothe, how to mend the skin of others with a kiss. But when love lingers too long, when it dares to settle, it leaves her trembling. She’ll sew up his wounds with the finest thread, careful and kind, then vanish before the bleeding begins. She calls it mercy, perhaps even grace, but it’s escape by another name. She disappears without a trace, yet the truth will always follow in her shadow: it’s not the chaos she fears, but the calm. She craves the ache of love decaying, the flicker of passion burning itself out. The slow fade, like a bonfire dwindling to embers, feels safer than the steady glow of something lasting. She’ll try, so **** hard, if it’s soft, steady, and solid… but she’ll search for any crack, any reason to run. She screams that she doesn’t deserve the good. And maybe she believes it. But love, real love, was never meant to be understood. It’s felt. It’s built. And no matter how strong the walls are, if giving stops feeling like sacrifice, she’ll break them down just to run again. They call her kind. They call her brilliant. But no one notices the hollow look in her eyes. Her best version of love is always with one foot out the door, mourning things she can’t let herself want. She’s a martyr with blueprints for escape folded into the seams of her being. Her arms are empty, her hands trembling, from all the effort it takes to give what she never seems to keep. She is the selflessly selfish woman, both a curse and an art. Saving everyone she can…except her own heart.

Do you miss me, or do you just miss not having to miss me? Do you long for the way my name lingered on your lips, or for how it used to break the silence? Do you reach for the warmth of the memories we cherished together, or do you only summon them to keep the winter at bay? Do you miss how I laughed at even your silliest jokes, or is it just the comfort of being understood that you crave? Is it the echo of my voice chasing away the quiet that you miss, or simply the presence of someone who could? Did you hold my heart with a passion that sent shivers through me, or did you just hold onto my hand because you knew I wouldn’t let go? Did my love warm you from within, or was it only a place to shelter from the cold? Was it me, truly me, you wanted, with all that I am? Or was it the ease of having someone who would always be there? Tell me honestly, love. Do you miss me, or do you just miss not having to miss someone?

You gave up on me. And I like to believe it wasn’t because the love disappeared, but because holding on asked too much of you. It’s hard to grasp, the way you let go of a heart that still beat for you, even after yours had stopped echoing back. I loved you deeply, with an ache that felt almost otherworldly in the quiet moments, rare, once-in-a-lifetime kind of love, the kind that slips away if not held carefully. I loved you in ways that didn’t show in daylight. In the silent sacrifices, the unspoken words, the meals laced with hope. Even when the softness left your eyes. Even when your smiles had to be forced. Even when the distance made your hands forget the feel of my skin. You gave up on me, even when I still saw forever in the outline of you. Even when I still dreamed dreams that had your name folded into every page. I never asked for perfection. I just wanted you to stay. To fight, even when it hurt. To meet me in the thick of the pain, where love could still be stronger than the fear. But maybe love isn’t always enough, especially when one heart stumbles before it reaches the ground. Still, I’ll carry your name quietly in the back of my mind. Not with bitterness. Not with regret. Just with a love that never found its ending.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the incredible women who rise before the sun, not for praise or recognition, but because they know no one else will. This is for the mothers whose names echo only in the quietest rooms, whispered by children too young to understand the weight you carry. This is for the ones who pack lunches, hold jobs, juggle chaos, and wipe away their child’s tears while quietly fighting back their own. Who save their crying for the dark, stretch their last dollar so their children won’t go without, and wear the same coat so their kids can stay warm. To the mothers whose “thank you” comes far too late, if it comes at all. The ones called “nagging” before they’re ever called “wise.” The ones who feel invisible, yet never fail to show up. You love fiercely in silence, showing up again and again, even after heartbreak, exhaustion, or doubt. Today is your day. You are not unseen. You are not forgotten. You are the reason so many of us are still standing, still fighting, still hoping. And today, the world owes you its loudest and most heartfelt thank you.

I once held you so close, like a promise I vowed never to break, something I truly believed even time couldn’t steal. But now, all I feel is the silence stretching between us, and I can’t help but wonder what you’re really thinking. You say you just want to move on, like the love we shared was something disposable. Like I was just a passing moment, easily overwritten by something new. You’ll meet someone else, and he’ll get to see that look I used to dream was mine alone. Just the thought of it twists my gut. I know I won’t forget us, not really, but you’ve already turned our story into something you file away as the past. So I’ll laugh with the guys, play my games, maybe even mention your name like it doesn’t ache,but when the clock hits 3 am., I’ll be wide awake, haunted by questions I no longer have the right to ask. He’ll buy you a drink. You’ll smile, maybe even laugh like you used to at my jokes, and in that small act, I’ll start to disappear, washed away, bit by bit. I don’t think I could ever fill the space you left with someone else’s name. I can’t blame you for trying to move on. But, it hurts knowing you might be doing just fine while I’m still here, burning in the wreckage of what we used to be.

I’ve been staring at the man in the mirror, not with anger, but with something closer to grief. Not the loud kind, but the quiet, lingering sort, the kind that no longer cries, yet never leaves. It sits at your bedside for years, silent and familiar. He looks like me, almost exactly. But something’s off, as if he’s a half-truth wearing a borrowed shadow. His eyes still carry the questions I gave up on long ago. What did you do with the boy I used to be? That boy’s purpose was soft, like a butterfly’s kiss. His hands, once open to the world, now curl into fists. His dreams stretched wide as the sky, yours are buried in the wasteland you call a life. You worked hard to speak in a calmer tone, to convince yourself this cage was a home. You claimed strength, mistaking numbness for power, then wondered why it felt so hollow. And now, even with scars sealed shut and time dulling the sting, I still feel the ache. I still find myself under those same stars, catching glimpses of the boy I once was,a flicker, a choice not yet forgotten. I won’t hate you, though it would be easier. Hate is clean. But this? This is tangled. It’s a love, fraying at the edges, nearly torn by everything you lost trying to make amends. So I look again. Even if just for a second, catching that faint burn behind your eyes. It’s not bright. It’s not pure. But it’s real. And it’s still mine. And that, I think, is enough, for something new to grow.