It's strange — how someone can occupy your thoughts even when you swear you're done caring.
Elena.
Her name still feels heavy in my chest, like a song that ended but won't stop echoing.
The night she left my place, I stood by the window for a long time, watching her walk away under the streetlights. I wanted to call her back. To say I didn't mean it that way. To tell her I wasn't trying to buy her, I was just… tired of seeing her struggle.
But pride — that useless, poisonous thing — made me stay silent.
When I said, "nothing is free, Elena," I thought I was protecting myself. I thought if I reminded her of what love had cost me before, maybe she wouldn't take more than I could give.
Truth?
I just didn't know how to love without control.
I opened my phone that night and saw her message again:
"Just for now."
It broke me in ways I can't explain.
Because I knew what "just for now" meant.
It meant she didn't trust me.
It meant she was choosing survival over love — and I hated that the world had made her that way.
So I decided not to send the money immediately.
Not because I didn't have it.
But because I wanted her to call again.
To need me again.
To say, "Marcus, please."
Twisted, right?
I know.
But love, for me, has always been about being seen — even if it's through someone's desperation.
Days passed.
Her messages stopped coming.
Her silence grew louder.
I'd open our chat every morning and scroll, waiting for the typing dots that never appeared.
Then one evening, I saw something that hit me like a punch to the gut —
Nathan's name on her story.
A video of him singing, and her voice in the background, laughing softly.
It was blurry, short — but enough.
I threw my phone across the room.
Because in that moment, I realized what I'd lost wasn't just her — it was my chance to be someone better.
I thought she'd moved on easily.
I told myself, She doesn't need you, Marcus.
But then I saw the news — her missing exams, her struggles. A mutual friend mentioned she hadn't been around campus.
Guilt hit harder than jealousy ever could.
I drafted a message that night:
"Elena, I'm sorry. I should've sent the money. I was angry, not heartless. Please tell me you're okay."
But I never sent it.
Because what if she didn't reply?
What if she'd already found peace somewhere else — with him?
So I kept watching from a distance.
Her silence became my punishment.
And when I saw her post a new quote on her story — "Maybe love isn't for me," — I knew she was breaking.
And I hated myself for helping the world break her again.
I started avoiding my reflection after that.
Couldn't stand the man who played god with someone's trust.
The truth is — I did love her.
But my love was selfish.
I wanted her strength, her fire, her calm — everything she was — but I didn't know how to handle the weight of her heart.
She deserved softness.
I gave her storms.
And I guess that's the part they don't tell you about being "the one who hurt her."
You don't move on.
You just learn to live with the ghost of the girl who looked at you and saw potential, when all you had were excuses.
If I could see her again, I wouldn't talk about money.
I wouldn't talk about pride.
I'd just say,
"You didn't deserve the way I loved you. And I hope you find someone who does it right."
But I know she won't come back.
And maybe that's okay.
Because sometimes, the hardest part of love isn't losing the person —
It's realizing you were never ready to be what they needed.