Even While I Wait

softness was my fault

We did not meet in the same moment.
You were healing.
I was breaking.
I was hoping.
You were hiding.
We were both carrying things
we never named aloud.

Love came quietly.
Not like thunder,
but like fog —
soft,
and hard to hold.

Sometimes,
it felt like a gift.
Sometimes,
like a test.

There were days it lifted us.
And days
it pulled us under.

We called it love,
even when it hurt.
Even when one gave more.
Even when one stopped showing up.

I have seen love
in two forms:
the one who takes,
and the one who gives
until they're empty.

I became the latter.
I stayed.
I poured.
I softened.
I forgave.

And still—
I was questioned.
My love
mistranslated into agenda.
My care
twisted into control.

It's strange
how suspicion grows
in the soil of devotion.
How tenderness
can be called manipulation.

I was told to walk away
when love becomes lonely.
To choose myself
when choosing them
means losing me.

But my feet
refused to move.
Because I didn't want to leave
what I still loved.

And here's the hardest part—
I don't hate you.
I don't blame you.

I only carry
this quiet sadness,
this heavy love
that no longer has a place to go.

So what now?

This isn't just about leaving.
It's about understanding
why I stayed.
Why I gave.
Why I believed
that love meant sacrifice.

I am learning
to be soft with myself.
To offer the same care
I gave so freely.
To listen to the ache
but not let it decide.

Maybe the path ahead
is unclear.
Maybe I walk it alone.

But I will walk it.
With grace.
With courage.
With the kind of love
I once gave away
too easily—
but now,
I offer
to myself.