prolonged

All my life, I had only ever wanted one thing—to be loved, truly loved, and seen for who I am.

Not half-loved

Not almost chosen.

Just enough for one person to stay.

I wanted to be someone’s priority. Someone they would think about first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

I wanted the kind of love that felt safe, the kind that didn’t make you question your worth or second-guess every little thing you did.

But somehow, that kind of love always felt just out of reach.

I watched other people fall into relationships so easily, laughing, smiling, and sharing moments that looked effortless. Meanwhile, I was always the one trying harder, giving more, hoping that maybe—just maybe—this time, it would be different.

And then, I met him.

He came into my life so unexpectedly, like something straight out of the stories I used to read late at night.

He was kind, attentive, and everything I thought I had been waiting for.

He listened when I spoke. He noticed the little things. He made me feel like I mattered.

For the first time in a long time, I let my guard down.

I allowed myself to believe that maybe this was it. Maybe this was the love I had been searching for all along.

The kind that didn’t hurt. The kind that stayed.

I gave him everything—my time, my trust, my heart.

And for a while, it felt real.

But sometimes, what feels real isn’t always true.

The signs were there. I just didn’t want to see them. The late replies. The sudden distance. The way his words stopped matching his actions.

I told myself I was overthinking. I convinced myself that love required patience, that maybe I just needed to hold on a little longer.

Until I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The truth didn’t come gently. It didn’t give me time to prepare or soften the blow. It hit me all at once, like a wave I never saw coming.

Betrayal.

The word alone felt heavy, but living through it was something else entirely. It wasn’t just about what he did—it was about everything I believed. Everything I had built in my mind, every hope I had carefully held onto, shattered in a single moment.

I remember sitting there, trying to process it all, but nothing made sense.

My chest felt tight, my thoughts scattered, and all I could think was—why?

Why was I never enough?

Was I too much? Too emotional? Too available?

Or was I simply not the person he truly wanted?

The questions didn’t stop, and neither did the pain.

That was the moment something inside me changed.

I started to doubt everything—my judgment, my worth, even my ability to love. The idea of opening up to someone again felt exhausting, almost impossible. If giving my all could still leave me this broken, then what was the point?

Life wasn’t a bed of roses. I knew that now more than ever.

And slowly, without even realizing it, I began to build walls around my heart. Strong, high walls that I believed would protect me from ever feeling this way again.

Maybe love just wasn’t meant for me.

Maybe some people were destined to give love, but never truly receive it.

So I made a quiet decision.

I would stop trying.

Stop hoping.

Stop believing in something that only ever seemed to hurt me.

It felt safer that way.

Easier.

Or at least, that’s what I thought.

Little did I know… love wasn’t done with me yet.

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