I love you. Even if it hurts me.

We started exploring something open, something intimate, something that felt like it had potential. I remember you saying we would stay friends no matter what happened. I remember the trust in those early days. The openness. The tenderness.

You were getting out of a marriage. You had cheated. You had regrets. You were seeking healing, freedom, maybe just pleasure and space. You told me you didn’t want to fall back into codependent patterns. You wanted consistency—but also independence. You wanted me to take care of myself.

I, on the other hand, wanted to be chosen. I was lonely, broke, uncertain about my career, and I overfunctioned. I whispered “I love you” too early, spent thousands trying to prove I was good enough. I tried to buy time, buy worth, buy stability. And I made mistakes—ones I now carry every day.

I broke a boundary we both agreed to: I had unprotected sex outside our arrangement twice. I apologized . You forgave me. I told the truth right away then.

I was impulsive, reactive. I thought if I made you a little jealous, you’d choose me. I acted out of fear and longing. I felt disposable when you went out with others. And when you pulled away emotionally, I spiraled.

You were still figuring out what you wanted. There were Pinterest posts about Aquariuses. Your mom was pressuring you and asking about kids and life timelines. You were living with your mom, as I was sinking deeper into debt and unemployment. I felt like I was drowning in self-doubt while trying to hold on to someone who didn’t know if they wanted me.

I watched the bond fray. You gave me mixed signals. You said “My door is open—but not if it’s going to be disrespected.” You thanked me for holding your emotions at the beginning. Then you called me negative. You blamed my ADHD. You asked me to take care of myself.

I broke up with you in December—not because I wanted to, but because I wanted a reaction. Instead, you said, “Let’s go our separate ways.” And I sent a final message. A confession. A truth too late. You didn’t reply.

And even when we spoke weeks later—after no contact—you said “For me, the answer is no.” I asked if there had been someone else. You said no. The Aquarius post was about your moon sign. That moment hit me hard. I had invented a whole narrative in my head, convinced I was competing with someone who didn’t exist.

I realize now: I was always competing with your independence, your grief, your shame. Maybe you were competing with mine too. We mirrored each other’s wounds: abandonment, codependency, impulsiveness, mistrust. And in the end, neither of us could be the person the other needed.

I wanted loyalty. And I broke boundaries.

You wanted consistency. And you pulled away.

You feared being someone’s mother. I became someone who needed mothering.

We were both unready.

Maybe we both cheated—differently. Maybe I was just a rebound. Maybe we were just attachment. Maybe we weren’t good for each other. But God, it still hurts. Not because it was perfect, but because it could’ve been something—if we had both been whole.

I am sorry. I will love you forever even though I do not deserve your love.