When I said I hated you,
I was begging myself to believe it.
Because loving you
when you no longer loved me
felt like standing in a storm,
waiting for a door that would never open.
I didn’t want to let go—
God, I didn’t.
But you had already left,
with your silence, your distance,
your eyes that stopped looking at me
like I was home.
So I said the only words
that could keep my heart
from crawling back to you:
I hate you.
But what I meant was:
Please, don’t go.
What I meant was:
I love you still, and I don’t know how to stop.
I wish you knew
how hard I try to seem okay.
How I laugh with people
but feel the emptiness echo back.
How I say I’m over you,
then break when your favorite song plays
in the middle of a crowded room.
I miss you—
every single day,
in ways I can’t admit out loud.
In the space beside me in bed,
in the way I still check my phone
hoping for a name
that won’t ever appear again.
You were my forever.
And I let you go
because I thought I had no choice.
Because I was too proud
or too scared
or maybe too late.
And if there’s one truth I carry now,
it’s this:
I didn’t stop loving you.
I only stopped saying it.
Maybe in another life,
I’ll be braver.
Maybe you’ll stay.
Maybe we’ll meet again
without wounds, without fear—
just love.
But if this is all there is,
if this life is the only one we get,
then know this:
I never stopped choosing you—
even when I had to walk away.