There's a special kind of ache that comes from realizing you were never chosen, just
conveniently there. Not ‘the one’, but ‘the maybe’.
The intermission between what he wants and what he's waiting for.
And here's one of the most honest and painful thing I'll admit, I knew.
I knew I was being kept on the bench.
Me, a placeholder.

Do you know what this means?

It means that we had was undeniably special, the glances, the conversations, the time we spent
together, but it was never meant to last, not for him.

​

I guess even 30+ women with soft hearts and years of wisdom still fall for men who aren't
offering much but know exactly how to make you question if you are enough.
I thought being older meant I was wiser. I knew what I was doing, or so I thought. I believed I
was on my guard, extending grace, waiting patiently for it to metamorphose into something
solid, but instead, I was becoming smaller, shrinking myself to fit into whatever little box he had
kept me in, hoping and making excuses.

It wasn't even a proper ending, it was more like a slow indifferent fade. Like I was never really
there in the first place.
I gave myself time to wallow in shame, yes, I was ashamed of myself, I should have known
better. I let it hurt, let the ache spread out across my day like spilled wine.
I cannot continue to be a 'maybe later' in someone else's story.
So, I picked myself up again
I learned my lesson, again.
Hoping someone would see your worth is not the same as being seen.
There was no dramatic text, no goodbye, just a quiet return to myself.
The kind that feels like homecoming, because the moment you stop letting people treat you like
a pause button, you start playing your own story again.

And still, some days it stings. Not because I want him back, God no, but because I remember
how much of myself I gave away hoping it would be enough. How I twisted my softness into
silence and mistook my patience for power. I sat through the pauses, the vague replies, the
breadcrumb affections, thinking maybe if I held on a little longer, he’d see me clearly. But people
don’t see you just because you want them to. They see you when they’re ready, and sometimes,
they will never be ready. That’s not my fault. Its not yours either.

I’ve come to understand that being a woman with depth, who loves with intention and presence
can feel like a curse in a world that rewards ambiguity. The heart I carry is not too much, it’s just
too precise to be wasted on half-heartedness. I want the kind of love that doesn't flinch at my
fullness. The kind that doesn’t keep me waiting, hoping for a spotlight that never turns in my
direction. There is power in knowing what you bring to the table, even when someone else
doesn’t sit down to eat with you.
 

So now, I wear my clarity like an armor. I do not chase, I do not plead, I’ve buried the version of
me that needed to be chosen to feel worthy and if it ever resurrects, I would bury it again, yes,
until it rises no more, because I'm done dimming my light to be seen, done shrinking myself to
be held, done waiting to be enough in someone else’s eyes. I was worthy before the text, before
the promise, before the maybe.

And maybe, just maybe, the most important relationship I need is the one with myself. The one
where I am never left waiting, never questioned, never benched. Just present, alive, and whole.
I am not a placeholder.
I deserve certainty, I deserve joy, I deserve to be the first choice and so do you.