You didn’t love me.
You loved the girl who flinched when you raised your voice,
the one who apologized just to keep the peace—
even when she wasn’t the one who broke it.
You loved the version of me
who dimmed her light so yours could shine.
The girl who second-guessed herself
because you taught her to mistrust her own voice.
She needed you.
She thought needing someone meant love.
She confused survival for connection.
And damn, didn’t you thrive in that chaos?
You fed on her softness,
her silence,
her “it’s okay”s
when it never really was.
Let’s be real—
you didn’t fall for my strength,
because strength doesn’t ask for permission.
Strength doesn’t chase,
doesn’t beg,
doesn’t bend until it breaks.
Nah.
You loved the girl who clung to you like a life raft
because she hadn’t yet realized she could swim on her own.
That girl…
she’s gone now.
She packed up her tears,
stitched her worth back together,
and walked the hell out of your fantasy.
You say I’ve changed.
Damn right I have.
I stopped mistaking codependency for intimacy.
I stopped calling your control “protection.”
I started calling it what it is:
emotional manipulation dressed up as devotion.
Healing after heartbreak isn't romantic.
It's messy.
It's crying in parking lots and unfollowing your ghost on every app.
It’s relearning how to sleep on just one side of the bed.
But it’s real.
It’s mine.
So no, you don’t get to miss me now.
You don’t get to show up in my DMs,
saying you want the “old me” back.
Because she’s not coming back.
She’s finally loving herself.
And she doesn’t need you anymore.
