Right Person, Wrong Reality

There’s a kind of heartbreak nobody really prepares you for.

It’s not being cheated on.

It’s not finding out they never loved you.

It’s not watching someone slowly become a stranger until you barely recognize what you had.

Sometimes the most devastating heartbreak is looking at someone and knowing:

I love you.

You love me.

And somehow, we still can’t be together.

What the fuck are you supposed to do with that?

How do you grieve someone who’s still here?

How do you convince your heart to let go when there isn’t some horrible betrayal you can cling to?

There’s no villain.

No giant explosion.

No moment where you finally get angry enough to say, Fuck you. I deserve better.

Because maybe he is good to you.

Maybe he’s one of the few people who genuinely sees you.

Maybe he knows the messy parts. The complicated parts. The parts you usually keep hidden because letting somebody see all of you means giving them the opportunity to hurt all of you.

But he saw them.

And he didn’t judge you.

He knows when you’re overthinking before you admit you’re overthinking.

He knows when “I’m fine” means you’re absolutely fucking not.

He knows when you need advice and when you just need somebody to listen.

He knows how to make you laugh when you’re two seconds away from crying.

He knows the chaos.

And somehow, he still loves you.

Maybe that’s exactly why it hurts so fucking much.

Because you can eventually accept someone not loving you.

But being loved by someone you cannot have?

That’s a completely different kind of torture.

Because There Will Always Be a “What If?”

What if things were different?

What if the timing had been better?

What if life hadn’t gotten so complicated?

What if the circumstances keeping us apart simply didn’t exist?

What if, in some other version of this life, we actually got our chance?

You try not to think about it.

You try to be rational.

You remind yourself that wanting something badly enough doesn’t magically make it possible.

And then you talk to him.

Everything inside you gets quiet.

And that stupid fucking heart of yours whispers:

There you are.

Suddenly, you’re right back where you started.

Loving someone you’re desperately trying to teach yourself how to live without.

So You Try Other People

Maybe that’s one of the hardest parts to admit.

You try to move forward.

You talk to other people.

You give other people chances.

You let yourself wonder whether somebody else could eventually become your person.

Sometimes you even start caring about them.

But when something goes wrong, who do you instinctively want to call?

Him.

When something amazing happens, who do you want to tell?

Him.

When your world feels like it’s falling apart and you need someone who actually understands what’s happening inside your head?

Still fucking him.

And there’s a special kind of guilt in realizing that the person listening to you cry over other people might be the person your heart wanted all along.

Because he listens.

Even when hearing it probably hurts him.

He gives you advice.

Even when part of him may wish there weren’t another man’s name in the conversation.

He tells you what you need to hear instead of what you want to hear.

He helps you put yourself back together after someone else hurts you.

And somewhere inside you, there’s this quiet, painful thought:

It should’ve been you.

Because maybe if I could actually have you, I wouldn’t keep searching for pieces of what I have with you in everybody else.

Loving Someone Doesn’t Always Mean You Get Them

That’s the lesson I fucking hate.

We’re raised on this idea that love conquers everything.

If two people genuinely love each other, they’ll figure it out.

They’ll fight for it.

They’ll choose each other.

Love will somehow make the impossible possible.

Then adulthood teaches you something much crueler:

Sometimes the love is real and reality still doesn’t change.

There can be responsibilities.

Timing.

Distance.

History.

Complications.

Circumstances neither person can magically erase.

A thousand things standing between two people who, in a different life or under different circumstances, might’ve been fucking incredible together.

And accepting that feels impossible sometimes.

Because I don’t want to hate you.

I don’t want to forget you.

And I don’t want to rewrite our story and pretend what we have isn’t real just because I can’t have it in the way I want.

But I also don’t know how to love you halfway.

I don’t know how to look at the person my heart recognizes and pretend you’re just another person.

Maybe That’s Why You’re So Hard to Let Go Of

You became my safe place without either of us planning for it.

The person I could tell the truth to.

Not the polished truth.

Not the socially acceptable version.

The ugly fucking truth.

The thoughts I’m embarrassed to admit.

The insecurities.

The heartbreak.

The anger.

The things I don’t know how to explain to anybody else.

And you never made me feel like I needed to hide those pieces from you.

You listened.

You understood.

You told me when I was wrong.

You reminded me who I was when I couldn’t see it myself.

And somewhere between all those conversations, all those vulnerable moments, and all those times you showed up when I desperately needed someone…

You became home.

Except home is somewhere I apparently don’t get to live.

And Jesus fucking Christ, does that hurt.

If Things Were Different…

I fucking hate those words.

Because I could build an entire imaginary lifetime inside them.

If things were different, maybe I’d choose you without hesitation.

Maybe there wouldn’t be other names.

Other heartbreaks.

Other almosts.

Maybe I wouldn’t keep looking for the feeling I already know exists when I’m with you.

Maybe we’d get the boring shit.

Grocery-store runs.

Falling asleep beside each other.

Arguments over something completely stupid.

Random Tuesday nights doing absolutely nothing.

Inside jokes nobody else understands.

The ordinary life people overlook until they realize how fucking extraordinary it is when you get to live it with someone you love.

Maybe I wouldn’t have to wonder what we could’ve been.

I’d just have you.

But I Don’t.

And that’s the part I have to somehow learn to live with.

I love you.

And some part of me might always love you.

Not because my life has to stop here.

Not because I can never move forward.

But because some people leave fingerprints on your soul.

You changed something in me.

You showed me what it feels like to be understood without constantly having to explain myself.

You showed me what it’s like to hand somebody the complicated parts of myself and not immediately regret it.

And whether or not I ever get to call you mine, that mattered.

You mattered.

You still fucking matter.

Maybe someday I’ll be able to think about what could’ve been without feeling that ache in my chest.

Maybe someday I’ll understand why two people can find each other, genuinely love each other, and still not get their happily ever after.

But right now?

I don’t understand it.

Right now, it just feels fucking cruel.

Because I could almost understand losing you if you stopped loving me.

I could eventually accept it if I discovered none of this had been real.

But knowing there’s love here?

Knowing that underneath all the complications, circumstances, boundaries, and reasons we can’t…

we still love each other?

That’s the heartbreak nobody teaches you how to survive.

Because sometimes the person you’re supposed to get over isn’t the person who broke your heart.

Sometimes they’re the person who helped put it back together.

And sometimes the hardest goodbye isn’t:

“I don’t love you anymore.”

It’s looking at someone you’d choose in another life and somehow finding the strength to say:

“I love you more than I know what to do with… and I still can’t have you.”