u/HerGentleSunshine

I love and miss you a lot.

It deeply grieves me to see your pain. I wish I could do something about it. I have always cared about it, and I never wanted you to feel otherwise.

I look at our old pictures and think about our memories, and still feel the love we shared. I remember your beautiful smile, your precious laugh, and your silliness. It matters to me, even if it’s gone.

It hurts so deeply that our relationship is shattered, that we fell into cycles and patterns of pain that felt impossible to escape. I never wanted any of this.

There was instability between us even before everything that happened later. I know I started shutting down long before then, because of the pain I was feeling in our relationship. After what happened, and the way things unfolded between us, that shutdown was harder to stop.

I know that we were both hurting and trying in our own ways. I wish we had known how to hold both of our hearts at the same time. I know that we weren’t okay.

I wanted to put the pieces back together so desperately.

I realize that I wasn’t okay.

My nervous system was in a constant state of falling apart. I also realize that I was trying to stabilize myself so that I could show up for you better, not because you or your pain didn’t matter. I didn’t know how to help myself or ask for it. My heart was so badly damaged and my body couldn’t handle it anymore. I know that hurt you, and I’m sorry.

Some of the things you said to me during that time impacted me more than I knew at the time. They shook me so deeply that my body and heart didn’t know how to keep going, even while I was trying to be there for you. I tried to take all of it and ignore my feelings because I thought I deserved it. I tried to ignore my own nervous system in order to focus on you, but it didn’t work.

I deeply desire for you to understand that, but I’m trying to accept that you may not.

I know that you believe that conversations between us would make no difference, and I’m trying to accept that, truly.

Today marks 100 days since our relationship ended.

I still have hope that our love is stronger than what happened between us.

I believe love is enough.

But I’m trying to accept the reality that this is over, as painful and heartbreaking as it is.

I love your joyful spirit, your ingenuity, your whimsy, your intricate and deep heart, your beautiful mind, and your soul that was uniquely crafted.

You are uniquely and unequivocally you, and I have always loved you for who you are.

My emotions cycle between sadness, confusion, frustration, denial, acceptance, and grief. All of it. Those words don’t fully capture how it feels.

But I know, deep in my heart and soul, that I love you.

I’m posting because I genuinely feel broken and confused. I’ve been out of this relationship for three months, but my mind still constantly spins trying to understand what happened and whether I’m seeing things clearly.

During a breakup where we were apart for around six months, I became involved with another woman for a couple of months. When my ex and I reconciled, I was not fully transparent about the extent of that involvement. There are more details but that is gist of what happened. I understand why that caused deep hurt and distrust, and I spent the following year trying to repair the relationship and rebuild trust.

But over time, it felt like my mistakes became a permanent justification for contempt, emotional punishment, and psychological deconstruction that went on for one year.

I stopped feeling like a partner being confronted about harmful behavior, and started feeling like I was being reduced into a fundamentally horrible person.

I was told things like:

* that I intentionally sought her out as my victim because she was vulnerable,

* that I intentionally abused her,

* that I was “just like every other man,”

* that I didn’t really love her and barely even liked her,

* that I abandoned her every time she truly needed me,

* and eventually, even the trauma from my past relationships was mocked sarcastically.

What confused me the most was that whenever I tried to explain how devastating those things felt to hear, she would insist she was “only talking about my behavior.” But it never felt like criticism of behavior anymore. It felt like condemnation of who I fundamentally was as a person.

What made it especially confusing was that I truly was trying to hold space for her pain and understand why she felt hurt and distrustful. I cared deeply about the damage I caused and genuinely wanted to fix it. I wasn’t trying to make everything about my feelings or avoid accountability.

But at the same time, I was still a person hearing extremely serious and painful things being said about my character, intentions, and humanity, and eventually I didn’t know how to emotionally carry both at once. It increasingly felt like if I didn’t fully align with the worst possible interpretation of myself and my intentions, then my accountability no longer counted.

Eventually it felt like there was no correct way for me to respond.

If I explained context, I was “avoiding accountability.”

If I became emotional or overwhelmed, I was “making it about myself.”

If I asked for space to calm down, that became proof against me too.

At the same time, if I stayed quiet and tried not to defend myself, she said I never opened up emotionally enough. But when I finally did try to express myself honestly, I often felt mocked, dismissed, yelled at, or told my emotions were manipulative.

Arguments would frequently escalate very quickly, and I often felt like I was trying to calm things down while also defending myself from increasingly harsh character judgments. There were vulnerable moments where I felt openly ridiculed or spoken to with contempt instead of understanding.

Over time, I became genuinely afraid of saying the wrong thing because even small conversations could suddenly turn into hours of conflict, accusations, panic, or emotional collapse. I started filtering and second-guessing nearly everything I said because it felt like any mistake, disagreement, emotional reaction, or imperfect wording could become proof that I was exactly the kind of person she believed I was.

And to be clear: for over a year, I really was trying to rebuild trust. I wasn’t perfect at it, but I consistently tried to provide transparency. I showed screenshots, answered questions, shared my phone, reassured her constantly, and tried to show through my actions that I was taking the repair process seriously.

But over time, it increasingly felt like nothing could ever actually repair the damage, no matter how much reassurance or compliance I gave.

For example, one time a female classmate of mine was being bullied in a school group chat. I wanted to privately check on her because she seemed genuinely upset, but my girlfriend told me that would make her uncomfortable, so I didn’t do it.

Months later, that same classmate was injured and called me asking for help getting back to campus. My girlfriend told me if I went to help her, she would break up with me. I stayed back and did not go help.

But despite complying in both situations, those incidents were still repeatedly used as evidence that I was emotionally betraying her.

The breaking point came after over a year of ongoing surveillance dynamics involving my phone. One night she demanded a full audit of my phone late at night. I agreed to show her my phone, but asked if we could do it at another time because the pressure and timing were triggering intense anxiety and panic. What made it harder emotionally was that she had already looked through my phone only two days earlier.

She refused and essentially told me that because I was the one who damaged trust, I was not in a position to ask for compromise, and that repair had to happen entirely on her terms.

Something about that deeply broke me emotionally.

I understand I damaged trust. I understand why she was angry and hurt. But I no longer felt like an equal human being in the relationship. I felt beneath her.

The hardest part is that I genuinely was trying to take accountability. But eventually it felt like accountability no longer meant:

“I hurt you and I need to repair that.”

It felt like accountability meant agreeing that I was fundamentally manipulative, intentionally abusive, selfish at my core, and morally rotten. And if I didn’t fully agree with that framing of myself, then none of my apologies or efforts counted.

I know I hurt her. I’m not trying to erase that.

I just genuinely want to know whether anyone else has experienced a relationship where one person’s legitimate pain slowly turned into constant contempt, emotional punishment, and character destruction.

I see your pain, and it grieves me. I want to hold your heart and keep it steady. I want to help clean it, bandage it, and help it heal.

I want you to see my pain and do the same with my heart. I want my pain to be acknowledged too. I want to know that it matters.

I don’t want it to be a competition over whose hurt is allowed to exist and be cared for. Love isn’t telling someone “it’s not about you, it’s about me,” or expecting them to attend to your heart completely while theirs is bleeding out.

I think that’s part of where we went wrong. You were in so much pain and wanted the focus to be on rescuing your heart because the pain was overwhelming and consuming. I’m so sad that was even the case in the first place. But I couldn’t properly focus on your heart when I was being told to ignore my own. I truly tried, but a bleeding heart can only give so much. Even when I tried, I still fell short.

I was in pain too. It mattered.

Sometimes I felt like I was expected to steadfastly hold your heart while you were stabbing through mine, and then when I stumbled and your heart became more bruised, you blamed me for it. I deeply wish you would understand me or have the desire to.

I know that we won’t hold each other’s hearts again. I know that you aren’t coming back. I know that you are settled on your interpretation of me and our relationship. I know there’s nothing I can do.

Even so, I still wish you could see the man who loves you more than anything. Deeply flawed, but still loving you. I wish you could see the man who has always wanted you. I wish you could see the man who cares about you deeply. I wish you could see the man who felt so much pain that his body couldn’t sustain itself, not the one who never loved you.

I know those desires won’t be fulfilled by you, and I have to hold this deep knowing in myself that they’re true, even if you never give that to me.

I feel silly even having hope for us, but I cannot force my heart to stop wanting that right now.

I see your pain, and it grieves me. I want to hold your heart and keep it steady. I want to help clean it, bandage it, and help it heal.

I want you to see my pain and do the same with my heart. I want my pain to be acknowledged too. I want to know that it matters.

I don’t want it to be a competition over whose hurt is allowed to exist and be cared for. Love isn’t telling someone “it’s not about you, it’s about me,” or expecting them to attend to your heart completely while theirs is bleeding out.

I think that’s part of where we went wrong. You were in so much pain and wanted the focus to be on rescuing your heart because the pain was overwhelming and consuming. I’m so sad that was even the case in the first place. But I couldn’t properly focus on your heart when I was being told to ignore my own. I truly tried, but a bleeding heart can only give so much. Even when I tried, I still fell short.

I was in pain too. It mattered.

Sometimes I felt like I was expected to steadfastly hold your heart while you were stabbing through mine, and then when I stumbled and your heart became more bruised, you blamed me for it. I deeply wish you would understand me or have the desire to.

I know that we won’t hold each other’s hearts again. I know that you aren’t coming back. I know that you are settled on your interpretation of me and our relationship. I know there’s nothing I can do.

Even so, I still wish you could see the man who loves you more than anything. Deeply flawed, but still loving you. I wish you could see the man who has always wanted you. I wish you could see the man who cares about you deeply. I wish you could see the man who felt so much pain that his body couldn’t sustain itself, not the one who never loved you.

I know those desires won’t be fulfilled by you, and I have to hold this deep knowing in myself that they’re true, even if you never give that to me.

I feel silly even having hope for us, but I cannot force my heart to stop wanting that right now.

I see your pain, and it grieves me. I want to hold your heart and keep it steady. I want to help clean it, bandage it, and help it heal.

I want you to see my pain and do the same with my heart. I want my pain to be acknowledged too. I want to know that it matters.

I don’t want it to be a competition over whose hurt is allowed to exist and be cared for. Love isn’t telling someone “it’s not about you, it’s about me,” or expecting them to attend to your heart completely while theirs is bleeding out.

I think that’s part of where we went wrong. You were in so much pain and wanted the focus to be on rescuing your heart because the pain was overwhelming and consuming. I’m so sad that was even the case in the first place. But I couldn’t properly focus on your heart when I was being told to ignore my own. I truly tried, but a bleeding heart can only give so much. Even when I tried, I still fell short.

I was in pain too. It mattered.

Sometimes I felt like I was expected to steadfastly hold your heart while you were stabbing through mine, and then when I stumbled and your heart became more bruised, you blamed me for it. I deeply wish you would understand me or have the desire to.

I know that we won’t hold each other’s hearts again. I know that you aren’t coming back. I know that you are settled on your interpretation of me and our relationship. I know there’s nothing I can do.

Even so, I still wish you could see the man who loves you more than anything. Deeply flawed, but still loving you. I wish you could see the man who has always wanted you. I wish you could see the man who cares about you deeply. I wish you could see the man who felt so much pain that his body couldn’t sustain itself, not the one who never loved you.

I know those desires won’t be fulfilled by you, and I have to hold this deep knowing in myself that they’re true, even if you never give that to me.

I feel silly even having hope for us, but I cannot force my heart to stop wanting that right now.

I see your pain, and it grieves me. I want to hold your heart and keep it steady. I want to help clean it, bandage it, and help it heal.

I want you to see my pain and do the same with my heart. I want my pain to be acknowledged too. I want to know that it matters.

I don’t want it to be a competition over whose hurt is allowed to exist and be cared for. Love isn’t telling someone “it’s not about you, it’s about me,” or expecting them to attend to your heart completely while theirs is bleeding out.

I think that’s part of where we went wrong. You were in so much pain and wanted the focus to be on rescuing your heart because the pain was overwhelming and consuming. I’m so sad that was even the case in the first place. But I couldn’t properly focus on your heart when I was being told to ignore my own. I truly tried, but a bleeding heart can only give so much. Even when I tried, I still fell short.

I was in pain too. It mattered.

Sometimes I felt like I was expected to steadfastly hold your heart while you were stabbing through mine, and then when I stumbled and your heart became more bruised, you blamed me for it. I deeply wish you would understand me or have the desire to.

I know that we won’t hold each other’s hearts again. I know that you aren’t coming back. I know that you are settled on your interpretation of me and our relationship. I know there’s nothing I can do.

Even so, I still wish you could see the man who loves you more than anything. Deeply flawed, but still loving you. I wish you could see the man who has always wanted you. I wish you could see the man who cares about you deeply. I wish you could see the man who felt so much pain that his body couldn’t sustain itself, not the one who never loved you.

I know those desires won’t be fulfilled by you, and I have to hold this deep knowing in myself that they’re true, even if you never give that to me.

I feel silly even having hope for us, but I cannot force my heart to stop wanting that right now.

I see your pain, and it grieves me. I want to hold your heart and keep it steady. I want to help clean it, bandage it, and help it heal.

I want you to see my pain and do the same with my heart. I want my pain to be acknowledged too. I want to know that it matters.

I don’t want it to be a competition over whose hurt is allowed to exist and be cared for. Love isn’t telling someone “it’s not about you, it’s about me,” or expecting them to attend to your heart completely while theirs is bleeding out.

I think that’s part of where we went wrong. You were in so much pain and wanted the focus to be on rescuing your heart because the pain was overwhelming and consuming. I’m so sad that was even the case in the first place. But I couldn’t properly focus on your heart when I was being told to ignore my own. I truly tried, but a bleeding heart can only give so much. Even when I tried, I still fell short.

I was in pain too. It mattered.

Sometimes I felt like I was expected to steadfastly hold your heart while you were stabbing through mine, and then when I stumbled and your heart became more bruised, you blamed me for it. I deeply wish you would understand me or have the desire to.

I know that we won’t hold each other’s hearts again. I know that you aren’t coming back. I know that you are settled on your interpretation of me and our relationship. I know there’s nothing I can do.

Even so, I still wish you could see the man who loves you more than anything. Deeply flawed, but still loving you. I wish you could see the man who has always wanted you. I wish you could see the man who cares about you deeply. I wish you could see the man who felt so much pain that his body couldn’t sustain itself, not the one who never loved you.

I know those desires won’t be fulfilled by you, and I have to hold this deep knowing in myself that they’re true, even if you never give that to me.

I feel silly even having hope for us, but I cannot force my heart to stop wanting that right now.

It’s so painful to want someone who no longer wants you. I hope that I will stop feeling this way soon.

We haven’t talked for 20 days. Every day that you choose not to talk to me, the fractures in my heart deepen. My heart no longer feels recognizable.

I feel like I have to move on because I know you no longer want me, and soon enough you may not love or miss me any longer. I am scared to feel and look like a fool for pining after someone who continues to choose distance every day.

I’m terrified to still be loving, wanting, and thinking about you while you never look back. I’m scared that part of my heart will always hold on. I’m worried I will stay stuck in our love while you’ve already moved on. But somehow, moving on still feels like a betrayal.

I just cannot bear this pain anymore. This is our longest stretch of no contact since our breakup three months ago. I want to get to the point where I refuse to pour any more energy into something you’ve walked away from, something you have left to die.

As much as it hurts to say, I want to forget you. Remembering how much I love you hurts too much. Carrying this level of pain for months has been excruciating.

Maybe I’m waking up, though. I’ve realized that it would take a lot for you to come back. You would have to see that it wasn’t all me. Not in the distant “I’m sure I did hurtful things too” way you’ve said before, but in a way that genuinely recognizes how your end of things impacted me and our relationship.

You would have to recognize that you asked me to gently hold your heart while often stabbing through mine, and then wondered why I struggled to hold yours steady. You would have to recognize the ramifications of your words, and how some of the things you said deeply impacted me and impaired my ability to show up and remain emotionally present.

You would have to understand that there’s a difference between confronting someone’s harmful behaviors and slowly redefining who they are as a person. Being hurt by someone does not give unlimited permission to speak to them as though they are rotten at their core, beyond understanding, or incapable of love.

You would have to be open to seeing my side of things instead of being the sole narrator of what our story was.

You would have to be willing to allow both of our pain to exist at the same time.

And unfortunately, I don’t know if you will ever truly realize or be open to any of that.

It breaks my heart and crushes my spirit that you’re choosing not to talk to me day after day.

It hurts when you told me you still were in love with me, that you never wanted this to happen, that you have always wanted me, and that we are worth it, but ultimately, you still choose distance.

So, maybe those are just words that don’t mean much. The action underneath is continued and sustained distance.

I oscillate between hope and doubt, sometimes feeling like your words don’t mean anything when your actions say otherwise. Other times, I feel like you still love and want me the same but feel burnt out and hurt from our relationship and just need space.

Who am I kidding though? You said it needs to be fully over for you. You said this chapter has to close. You said it has to be forever for any chance at a future and that we have to be completely different people.

Our relationship has lacked stability in huge ways, and this isn’t the first time you’ve left me. Sometimes I feel so lame wanting you back, even after being left repeatedly.

Honestly, the pain is so unbearable that I hope I will be able to move on, even though it feels like betrayal. I try to remind myself that this wasn’t my choice, it never has been.

It breaks my heart and crushes my spirit that you’re choosing not to talk to me day after day.

It hurts when you told me you still were in love with me, that you never wanted this to happen, that you have always wanted me, and that we are worth it, but ultimately, you still choose distance.

So, maybe those are just words that don’t mean much. The action underneath is continued and sustained distance.

I oscillate between hope and doubt, sometimes feeling like your words don’t mean anything when your actions say otherwise. Other times, I feel like you still love and want me the same but feel burnt out and hurt from our relationship and just need space.

Who am I kidding though? You said it needs to be fully over for you. You said this chapter has to close. You said it has to be forever for any chance at a future and that we have to be completely different people.

Honestly, the pain is so unbearable that I hope I will be able to move on, even though it feels like betrayal. I try to remind myself that this wasn’t my choice, it never has been.

It breaks my heart and crushes my spirit that you’re choosing not to talk to me day after day.

It hurts when you told me you still were in love with me, that you never wanted this to happen, that you have always wanted me, and that we are worth it, but ultimately, you still choose distance.

So, maybe those are just words that don’t mean much. The action underneath is continued and sustained distance.

I oscillate between hope and doubt, sometimes feeling like your words don’t mean anything when your actions say otherwise. Other times, I feel like you still love and want me the same but feel burnt out and hurt from our relationship and just need space.

Who am I kidding though? You said it needs to be fully over for you. You said this chapter has to close. You said it has to be forever for any chance at a future and that we have to be completely different people.

Honestly, the pain is so unbearable that I hope I will be able to move on, even though it feels like betrayal. I try to remind myself that this wasn’t my choice, it never has been.

Our relationship was supposed to be a painting. A shared piece of art where we both held brushes in our hands and slowly created something beautiful together. Our brushstrokes were supposed to complement each other and tell the story of our love.

I do believe there was a time when it felt like that.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a shared painting.

I made mistakes. Some of my brushstrokes damaged the canvas we were trying to build together. I wanted to acknowledge that. I wanted to repair what I could and learn how to paint more carefully.

But eventually, it felt like my brushstrokes only mattered when they aligned with how she believed the painting should look. And because of the ways I had damaged the canvas, it felt like I was being told that the direction of the painting was no longer up to me.

The story behind my shaking hands disappeared, and all that remained was my failure to hold the brush correctly.

At some point, I could barely paint at all.

Not because I didn’t care about the art we were making, but because it felt like every brushstroke I made was already decided to be wrong before it even touched the canvas.

I still wanted to create something together. I still wanted to be treated like an equal artist in the piece, even while acknowledging the damage I had caused to it.

But eventually, it no longer felt like we were painting together.

It felt like I was standing in front of a portrait of myself that had already been finished for me.

Some parts of me feel lame writing all this stuff for someone who’s choosing not to talk to me, but it is what it is.

I love you.

Our relationship was supposed to be a painting. A shared piece of art where we both held brushes in our hands and slowly created something beautiful together. Our brushstrokes were supposed to complement each other and tell the story of our love.

I do believe there was a time when it felt like that.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a shared painting.

I made mistakes. Some of my brushstrokes damaged the canvas we were trying to build together. I wanted to acknowledge that. I wanted to repair what I could and learn how to paint more carefully.

But eventually, it felt like my brushstrokes only mattered when they aligned with how she believed the painting should look. And because of the ways I had damaged the canvas, it felt like I was being told that the direction of the painting was no longer up to me.

The story behind my shaking hands disappeared, and all that remained was my failure to hold the brush correctly.

At some point, I could barely paint at all.

Not because I didn’t care about the art we were making, but because it felt like every brushstroke I made was already decided to be wrong before it even touched the canvas.

I still wanted to create something together. I still wanted to be treated like an equal artist in the piece, even while acknowledging the damage I had caused to it.

But eventually, it no longer felt like we were painting together.

It felt like I was standing in front of a portrait of myself that had already been finished for me.

I love you.

Our relationship was supposed to be a painting. A shared piece of art where we both held brushes in our hands and slowly created something beautiful together. Our brushstrokes were supposed to complement each other and tell the story of our love.

I do believe there was a time when it felt like that.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a shared painting.

I made mistakes. Some of my brushstrokes damaged the canvas we were trying to build together. I wanted to acknowledge that. I wanted to repair what I could and learn how to paint more carefully.

But eventually, it felt like my brushstrokes only mattered when they aligned with how she believed the painting should look. And because of the ways I had damaged the canvas, it felt like I was being told that the direction of the painting was no longer up to me.

The story behind my shaking hands disappeared, and all that remained was my failure to hold the brush correctly.

At some point, I could barely paint at all.

Not because I didn’t care about the art we were making, but because it felt like every brushstroke I made was already decided to be wrong before it even touched the canvas.

I still wanted to create something together. I still wanted to be treated like an equal artist in the piece, even while acknowledging the damage I had caused to it.

But eventually, it no longer felt like we were painting together.

It felt like I was standing in front of a portrait of myself that had already been finished for me.

I love you.

A painting where my brushstrokes change the painting

Our relationship was supposed to be a painting. A shared piece of art where we both held brushes in our hands and slowly created something beautiful together. Our brushstrokes were supposed to complement each other and tell the story of our love.

I do believe there was a time when it felt like that.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a shared painting.

I made mistakes. Some of my brushstrokes damaged the canvas we were trying to build together. I wanted to acknowledge that. I wanted to repair what I could and learn how to paint more carefully.

But eventually, it felt like my brushstrokes only mattered when they aligned with how she believed the painting should look. And because of the ways I had damaged the canvas, it felt like I was being told that the direction of the painting was no longer up to me.

The story behind my shaking hands disappeared, and all that remained was my failure to hold the brush correctly.

At some point, I could barely paint at all.

Not because I didn’t care about the art we were making, but because it felt like every brushstroke I made was already decided to be wrong before it even touched the canvas.

I still wanted to create something together. I still wanted to be treated like an equal artist in the piece, even while acknowledging the damage I had caused to it.

But eventually, it no longer felt like we were painting together.

It felt like I was standing in front of a portrait of myself that had already been finished for me.

I love you.

Our relationship was supposed to be a painting. A shared piece of art where we both held brushes in our hands and slowly created something beautiful together. Our brushstrokes were supposed to complement each other and tell the story of our love.

I do believe there was a time when it felt like that.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a shared painting.

I made mistakes. Some of my brushstrokes damaged the canvas we were trying to build together. I wanted to acknowledge that. I wanted to repair what I could and learn how to paint more carefully.

But eventually, it felt like my brushstrokes only mattered when they aligned with how she believed the painting should look. And because of the ways I had damaged the canvas, it felt like I was being told that the direction of the painting was no longer up to me.

The story behind my shaking hands disappeared, and all that remained was my failure to hold the brush correctly.

At some point, I could barely paint at all.

Not because I didn’t care about the art we were making, but because it felt like every brushstroke I made was already decided to be wrong before it even touched the canvas.

I still wanted to create something together. I still wanted to be treated like an equal artist in the piece, even while acknowledging the damage I had caused to it.

But eventually, it no longer felt like we were painting together.

It felt like I was standing in front of a portrait of myself that had already been finished for me.

Our relationship was supposed to be a painting. A shared piece of art where we both held brushes in our hands and slowly created something beautiful together. Our brushstrokes were supposed to complement each other and tell the story of our love.

I do believe there was a time when it felt like that.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a shared painting.

I made mistakes. Some of my brushstrokes damaged the canvas we were trying to build together. I wanted to acknowledge that. I wanted to repair what I could and learn how to paint more carefully.

But eventually, it felt like my brushstrokes only mattered when they aligned with how she believed the painting should look. And because of the ways I had damaged the canvas, it felt like I was being told that the direction of the painting was no longer up to me.

The story behind my shaking hands disappeared, and all that remained was my failure to hold the brush correctly.

At some point, I could barely paint at all.

Not because I didn’t care about the art we were making, but because it felt like every brushstroke I made was already decided to be wrong before it even touched the canvas.

I still wanted to create something together. I still wanted to be treated like an equal artist in the piece, even while acknowledging the damage I had caused to it.

But eventually, it no longer felt like we were painting together.

It felt like I was standing in front of a portrait of myself that had already been finished for me.

Our relationship was supposed to be a painting. A shared piece of art where we both held brushes in our hands and slowly created something beautiful together. Our brushstrokes were supposed to complement each other and tell the story of our love.

I do believe there was a time when it felt like that.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a shared painting.

I made mistakes. Some of my brushstrokes damaged the canvas we were trying to build together. I wanted to acknowledge that. I wanted to repair what I could and learn how to paint more carefully.

But eventually, it felt like my brushstrokes only mattered when they aligned with how she believed the painting should look. And because of the ways I had damaged the canvas, it felt like I was being told that the direction of the painting was no longer up to me.

The story behind my shaking hands disappeared, and all that remained was my failure to hold the brush correctly.

At some point, I could barely paint at all.

Not because I didn’t care about the art we were making, but because it felt like every brushstroke I made was already decided to be wrong before it even touched the canvas.

I still wanted to create something together. I still wanted to be treated like an equal artist in the piece, even while acknowledging the damage I had caused to it.

But eventually, it no longer felt like we were painting together.

It felt like I was standing in front of a portrait of myself that had already been finished for me.

This is so painful. The story is closed now and there’s nothing I can do. The story closed long before we broke up and I was fighting to rewrite a book that was already published. I got blamed for the book being published, but then wasn’t allowed to make any edits.

This really sucks.