You never asked to be a symbol.
You were just trying to love me.
And for a while, you did.
I still remember how your laugh folded time.
How you wore silence like a silk scarf—not heavy like mine.
How your eyes told stories I wasn’t ready to hear.
I ruined it.
Not all at once. Not with fire.
But slowly. With doubt. With ghosts.
With the damage I hadn’t dealt with and didn’t know how to name.
You saw the boy in the cupboard, even if I never introduced him.
You kissed him anyway.
That was your magic.
But magic doesn’t survive starvation.
And I was starving, love.
I was clawing at walls, writing lyrics with blood and memory.
You needed a partner.
I needed a lifeline.
You tried.
I didn’t let you in.
I built walls out of metaphors and played martyr in my own tragedies.
And when you finally left—I let you.
I told myself it was for your safety.
But really, I didn’t believe I was worth staying for.
And yet—
I still write about you.
Not to win you back.
Not to rewrite what happened.
But because you mattered.
Because you saw something in me when I couldn’t even look at my own reflection.
I hope you’re free now.
I hope you found someone who doesn’t flinch at love.
You were the softest chapter in a book I nearly set on fire.
Thank you for reading me anyway.