I tried to convince myself that it wasn't intentional.
That the way you showed up just enough to keep me from leaving…wasn't something you planned. That it wasn't calculated. That you weren't aware of the effect you had on me.
Because believing otherwise would mean accepting something I wasn't ready to face—
That you knew exactly what you were doing.
It started small. It always does.
A message out of nowhere.
"Are you okay?"
Four words. Simple. Harmless.But they never came when things were good.
Only when I had already started pulling away.
Only when I had spent hours—sometimes days—telling myself I deserved better, that I was done waiting, done hoping, done shrinking myself into something easier to love.
And just when I got close—really close—to letting you go…
There you were.
Like a reflex. Like instinct.
Like you felt the distance and couldn't let it happen.
I used to stare at those messages longer than I'd like to admit.
Reading into them. Breaking them apart.
Are you okay?
Not I miss you.Not I want to see you.Not I care about you.
Just enough concern to sound real.Just enough distance to stay safe.
And every single time…I answered.
Of course I did.
Because I wasn't strong—I was hopeful.
There's a difference. A painful one.
Hope keeps you waiting for things that strength would walk away from.
I remember one night in particular.
I had finally decided I was done.
No overthinking. No dramatic goodbye. Just…done. I put my phone on silent, turned it face down, and told myself that if you didn't reach out, that would be my answer.
Hours passed.
Then more.
The silence felt different that night. Not heavy, not suffocating—just…clear. Like something inside me had finally settled.
I thought, This is it. This is what letting go feels like.
I almost felt proud of myself.
And then my phone lit up.
I didn't even need to check to know it was you.
Some part of me always knew.
I stared at the screen like it was a test I wasn't ready to take. My heart started racing, my thoughts unraveling all over again.
Don't open it, I told myself.If you open it, you're back at the beginning.
But curiosity has a cruel way of dressing itself up as closure.
So I picked up my phone.
One message.
"I saw something today that reminded me of you."
That was it.
No explanation. No follow-up.
Just a sentence—unfinished, open-ended, impossible to ignore.
And just like that, everything I had built over those quiet hours…collapsed.
Because now I needed to know.
What did you see?Why did it remind you of me?Were you thinking about me for long, or just for a second?
Did I matter…or was I just a passing thought?
I hated how quickly my mind ran back to you.
How easily I slipped back into that familiar place—waiting, wondering, wanting.
I typed a reply. Deleted it. Typed again.
"What was it?"
Too eager.
Delete.
"Oh yeah?"
Too casual.
Delete.
I sat there for what felt like forever, trying to find the perfect balance between interested and unaffected.
Between someone who cared…and someone who wasn't already falling apart.
In the end, I sent the simplest thing I could.
"What do you mean?"
Neutral. Safe.
A lie.
Because there was nothing neutral about the way my hands were shaking.
You didn't reply right away.
Of course you didn't.
You never did.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Then two.
And just like that, the power shifted again.
Now I was the one waiting.
Checking my phone every few minutes, pretending I wasn't. Re-reading your message like it might reveal something new the tenth time around.
It was exhausting.
Not just the waiting—but the way I let it consume me.
The way one message from you could undo hours, days, even weeks of progress.
And the worst part?
When you finally replied…
You acted like none of it mattered.
"Just something random. You'd laugh if you saw it."
That was all.
No detail. No effort.
Nothing that justified the storm you had just started in my head.
I remember staring at that message, something unfamiliar settling in my chest.
Not sadness.
Not even disappointment.
Something sharper.
Something quieter.
For the first time, I didn't feel special.
I felt…convenient.
Like I wasn't someone you reached for because you needed me—
but someone you turned to when there was nothing else to hold your attention.
And still…
Still, I didn't walk away.
I told myself it wasn't that serious. That I was overthinking, reading too much into things, expecting too much.
I made excuses for you so I wouldn't have to face the truth about myself.
Because walking away would mean admitting something I wasn't ready to say out loud—
That I had let myself become an option.
Willingly.
Repeatedly.
And maybe, on some level…
I thought that if I stayed long enough,if I proved I wasn't going anywhere,if I kept choosing you no matter how little you gave—
you would eventually choose me too.
But almost…
Almost isn't accidental.
It's deliberate.
It's measured.
It's knowing exactly how far to go before someone starts to leave—
and stopping right there.
And you?
You were very good at stopping.