There's Nothing to Save, I Know.

Hi my dearest,

This morning I checked my phone while waiting for my coffee to brew—so I could, once again, face capitalism in exchange for fake paper money.

And, there it was: a message from the man I once loved deeply.
Even though he was not interested on meeting the real me.
Just what I could give him to feel better about himself.

His message? Crumbs.
"Hope you're well,"
"Our trip was good"
A couple of TikToks—little pings to get undeserved attention.

And I get it now.
He was never meant to walk beside me—not in the way I needed.
I know "I'm too much" for him.
I know he can't hold me—maybe never could.
And I've also accepted that he doesn't love me the way I love.

I told him that in Boston.
(Read: A letter to the me who got here.)

I told him it was okay.

Of course, it was too much for him.
He started making me feel like I was being dramatic—too sensitive—for showing vulnerability.
Something, he'll probably never dare to do.

I've tried for four years.
We never even officially dated.
Convenient for him.
Until I realized I was there only of familiarity.
Out of love.
Out of trauma.

We went to Boston together.
And that trip was it. I was done.
I picked myself.
I let go of the hope of being "picked" by him.

And now, four days after the trip, he sends another message.
It reminds me: there hasn't been a single day in years when we haven't talked.
And yet... I feel no love.
I'm not confused.

I see the illusion now.

He can't be vulnerable.
And without vulnerability, you can't be real.

Still, I responded.
And a small part of me woke up.
That part—the one that still whispers: "Maybe, some day he'll see me for who I am... and change."

As if.

He mirrored my old wounds perfectly.
The ghost of my pasts.
The pattern: give undivided attention, accept me, make me feel safe—Only to reveal an agenda.

An agenda he probably doesn't even know he has.
That's what makes him "tolerable."
That's what makes me believe he could change.

For him, love = control.
Intimacy = ammunition.
Every truth I shared became a tool he could use to make me feel "not enough."

He needed to feel relevant in my decisions.
And I gave it all—because that's what I was trained to do.

Trained by my mother, my environment:
"Give us everything, and we'll give you crumbs—so you can feel like belong to someone."

Jesus, it sounds like a cult.

I thought that by being real, he finally see what I had to offer.
That we could be partners.
That we could build something.

But the truth is—I stayed hoping I'd finally get what I never got from anyone else.
I begged to feel chosen.

And then, in Boston, I finally understood:
That trip wasn't for us.
It was my closure.

I cried in the bathroom.
He thought I was just drunk.
But told him:

"I'm grieving. Because I love you more than you'll ever love me."

He got upset.
He panicked. Vulnerability makes him itch.
He tried to manipulate the moment—to move it about me being "too much."
Classic.

I just said, "Its okay. I'm not asking for anything. I just wanted to be honest. And here I am"

That was all I wanted.
Honesty.
Not a goodbye. Not a scene.
Just to stop suppressing my amazing self.

And now after that—I feel free.

My body still craves that kind of "love," but that's not where I'm going.
I'm heading toward freedom from patterns that only served other people.

He's not evil.
He's just unconscious.
He can't walk the path I'm on—not now, not ever.

I don't need an apology.
I've got me.
Telling myself "I'm sorry" is more than enough.

And yes, maybe I'll respond to his texts out of habit.
But don't confuse what with me not knowing where I stand.

Let me tell you what I've learned:

It's not about what kind of relationship you'll build with someone else.
It's about the relationship you have with yourself.

Can you trust your feelings and honor your soul's needs?
Can you hold yourself when no one's clapping?
Can you love yourself in your worst moments?

I know you can.
You always have.
You just have to remember.