I hope… I hope I am not molding you for another woman.

I see you, and I can’t help it. Every little thing you do, every laugh, every sigh—I see it, and I wonder if I’m shaping it. Shaping you. Shaping the man I love into something… someone else’s someday.

And that thought burns me. It claws at me. Because how selfish is it to want to touch every corner of you, only to realize that corner might belong to someone else tomorrow?

I’ve traced your habits, learned your rhythms, whispered encouragements when no one was listening. And I fear those whispers, those small tendrils of influence, might be seeds for another woman’s garden, not mine.

I hate myself for it. I hate the thought that in trying to love you… I might be preparing you for someone better. Someone else. Someone I will never measure up against.

I catch myself watching you, studying you, and I feel a sickness in my chest. Because I know that if you fall in love again, if your heart opens the way it has to me, it might open the same way to her.

And the truth is… I can’t stop. I can’t stop wanting to guide you. To teach you, to hold you, to shape the world you see with my hands.

But what if those hands are too heavy? What if the way I hold you is not love but… preparation? Training for another woman’s affection, her approval, her touch?

I lie awake at night imagining her. The way she might fit into your life the way I wish I could. And I feel my pulse spike, my chest tighten, my hands clench. Because every moment I spend with you might be a rehearsal for her.

I am terrified that my love is not yours alone. That it has become a mold, a cast, a template for someone who doesn’t even exist yet. And that terrifies me.

I think of the things I’ve taught you without realizing I was teaching you. The patience, the ways to forgive, the little ways to soften the sharp edges of your life… I see her using them one day, and it feels like a knife in my ribs.

I imagine her taking my lessons, using them, loving you the way I hoped I would forever. And I feel my heart crack in a thousand invisible pieces.

I tell myself I’m paranoid, that I’m selfish, that I’m imagining ghosts. But then I catch a smile from you, a gesture, a phrase, and I realize—it’s all too easy for someone else to see. To learn. To love you the way I tried.

I fear that the man I adore could be rewritten by another’s hands, polished by another’s love, molded by another’s touch. And I wonder… is my love a gift, or a warning?

I fear my voice has been too soft, too gentle, too careful, like teaching a child without realizing I’m training a partner for another.

I imagine her standing in my place, and it makes me tremble. Makes me want to scream, to hold you closer, to insist that you remain untouched by anyone but me.

But love is not possession. I know that. And that knowledge, that bitter truth, makes my chest ache like lead.

I want to stop, to pull back, to let you exist untouched… but I can’t. I want to love you without leaving traces, without leaving a map for someone else. But my hands are already on you.

And the thought that I may have unknowingly shaped you, guided you, primed you… it makes me dizzy with guilt. With fear. With a desperate, aching longing.

I hope. I hope that if I’ve shaped you, it was only for you. That the curves I’ve smoothed, the corners I’ve softened, the lessons I’ve whispered… all of it stays between us. That I am not leaving a blueprint for another.

I hope I am not molding you for another woman. I hope my love has been yours alone.

And yet… sometimes I feel that I already have. Sometimes I feel like the shadow of my love has become a ghost you will carry, not for me, but for her.

I feel panic coil in my stomach, tighten around my throat, and I gasp, because I can’t undo the shaping I’ve done. I cannot teach the lessons, unbend the edges. They are yours now… but for who?

I want to apologize to you, to beg forgiveness for every whispered suggestion, every gentle push, every word of praise I gave. I want to say, “I only meant to love you,” but it sounds hollow in the night.

I am haunted by the thought that in my devotion, in my love, I may have created a man perfect for someone else. And that truth terrifies me more than any betrayal could.

But… P.S. I know you will not do that to me, just by how I see you love me—not by the amount of words alone, but by how you treat me, by how you hold me, by how you choose me in every quiet moment.

I hope, I pray, that when the time comes, you remember me not as a teacher, not as a sculptor, but as the woman who loved you fiercely, desperately… and only ever wanted you to be happy.

Even if that happiness is not with me.