And in that choice, you do something both brave and tragic — you invalidate your own feelings just to protect theirs. You quiet your storms so they won’t drown. You fold yourself smaller, hoping they’ll feel safer standing near. You convince yourself that patience is love, that waiting is proof.
But sometimes, love isn’t supposed to be this quiet. Sometimes, love shouldn’t always require you to disappear.
Still — you stay. Not because you’re weak, but because you see the wounded child behind their calm. The one who learned that closeness hurts, that love leaves, that needing someone is dangerous.
And maybe, deep down, you believe that if you stay long enough, they’ll finally believe in love.
Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t.
But even if they never learn how to stay, you’ll know that you did.
You’ll know that you loved someone who was scared of love, and you did it without resentment.
That you turned your understanding into shelter, even when it cost you warmth.
Because sometimes, love isn’t about fixing or forcing.
Sometimes, it’s simply about meeting someone where their fear lives — and choosing to love them there, gently.
Even if it means losing a little bit of myself in the process.
Even if it means the only one who truly sees the love… is me.
