I said,
if I go back,
I lose my progress.
If I don’t,
I lose nothing.

But I went back.
And now I have to ask myself—
maybe I’m learning
to stand my ground,
but I’m losing friends.
People are walking away.

I’m confused as hell.

You love me in a way
that leaves me breathless.

Should I teach him
to love me like that?
I don’t know.

I just wish
he cared for me
the way you do.

I’ve said it many times—
you are perfect, L.
But I don’t think
you’re the right man for me.

I think we had
the most honest conversation in ages—
and it was beautiful.

I cried.
I think you cried too.

But I loved your honesty,
your open heart.
We’re growing.
We’re maturing together.
And that is priceless.

I crave your poetry, L.
It makes me smile—
it makes me wish
he would write the same things for me,
that he would be devoted to me
the way you are.

You don’t know I went back to him.
I know it would **** you.
I know I’m distant—
I’m peeling off the band-aid slowly.

It could be under warm water,
where the wound would soften
and there’d be no pain.
But I choose to tear it off dry,
just to feel
every fragment of hurt.

Because deep down,
I think I’m a *******.

I wonder why I keep delaying the end with you.
I never fell in love with you—
I fell in love with the freedom you gave me.
And maybe that’s why
my farewell still waits,
unfinished,
in a notes app.
I don’t want to lose my freedom.