And the truth you can’t escape,
the one you bury under every brave smile,
is that a part of you still misses him.
Not the man he was—because he was never that man—
but the version you created,
the lie you clung to like a lifeline.
The lie that said he loved you back.

You hate yourself for it.
For the nights you still cry his name,
for the quiet corners of your mind where he still lives,
for the twisted hope that maybe, just maybe,
he looks at someone else and realizes what he lost.

But the part that destroys you the most?
It’s knowing that even now,
even after all he did,
if he showed up today,
with the same broken promises
and the same hollow smile—
you’re not sure you’d say no.

Because love, real love, doesn’t just leave.
It festers. It infects.
It becomes a parasite you can’t cut out,
even when it’s killing you.

And you know what the world doesn’t want to hear,
what no one dares admit?
You don’t hate him.
Not really.
You hate yourself.

For staying. For loving. For breaking.
For still wishing,
in the deepest, darkest part of you,
that he would come back
and this time—
this time—
it would be different.

But it won’t.
It never will.
And the hardest truth of all?
You’d have to tear yourself apart to finally let him go.
And the scariest part?
You’re not sure you want to.