Being Alone

I used to think love was something you fought for.

So I fought.

For fourteen years. Through distance. Through silence. Through promises that sounded better than they ever felt.

I stayed when I should’ve left. Left when I wanted to stay. Mistook chaos for passion and patience for love.

Fuck.

I was good at it.

At making excuses. At finding reasons. At convincing myself that loving someone was supposed to be this hard.

I’ve spent more nights staring at a fucking phone than I care to admit.

Waiting for words. Dreading words. Reading things that weren’t even there.

And somewhere in all of that, I started confusing being wanted with being loved.

That’s a miserable fucking realization.

Because I know solitude.

I’ve slept beneath stars, crossed mountains alone and driven endless highways with nothing but my thoughts.

Never felt lonely.

Yet somehow, the loneliest I’ve ever been was when I had someone to lose.

I don’t hate love.

I hate what I’ve allowed it to turn me into.

A man who questions himself. Who waits. Who compromises until there’s nothing left worth compromising.

And I’m tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.

The kind that settles in your fucking bones.

So maybe I’ll stop.

Stop searching. Stop chasing. Stop mistaking someone else’s uncertainty for my responsibility.

Give me the quiet. The mountains. The empty bed.

Because after everything I’ve learned about relationships,

I’ve come to one terrible conclusion.

I’ve never needed someone to make me whole.

But fuck,

I’ve let enough people make me feel

like I wasn’t.