I miss you.
More than I want to admit.
But when I see you
when you’re actually there,
in front of me
my whole body just… shakes.

Not like butterflies.
Not some innocent, nervous crush.
It’s deeper.
It’s panic and grief twisted together
like my body doesn’t know
if it should run toward you
or escape.

I love you.
I don’t even want to,
but I do.
And it terrifies me.
Because you hurt me.
You know you did.

You shattered the version of me
that trusted you,
that saw the good in you
and held it like it was safe.

You broke me,
and I still want to feel close to you.
Isn’t that tragic?

My hands tremble when you walk by.
My chest tightens like a warning.
And still—
some part of me reaches for you,
like a flame that doesn’t know
it’s already been burned.

You do know.
You have to.
You looked me in the eye
when you let go.

I pretend not to see you now.
Pretend I don’t still feel everything.
Because it's easier
than looking at the person
who left me bleeding
and walked away.

And the worst part?
You still live in me.
In the shake of my hands.
In the silence I carry.
In the way I look for you,
even when I beg myself not to.

So yeah…
I miss you.
But I’m scared of you now.
And I don’t know
what haunts me more
what you did to me,
or the fact
that I still wish you’d hold me.