u/comet_love99

I loved you with the part of me I should have saved.

That is why your silence feels like a wound with my name on it.

I never saw a life beside anyone else.

Even when we broke, it never felt finished.
It felt paused.

Like something darker than choice kept dragging us back into the same room.
We hurt each other.

Then we became the only place the hurt could rest.

You called me unstable.
Maybe I was.

But nothing fake bleeds this long.
And you were not innocent either.

You had your own damage.
Your own fire.

Your own way of turning love into a locked door and asking me to stay outside bleeding.

That was us.
Not clean.
Not safe.

Not explainable to anyone who only knows love when it behaves.

We were chaos with memory.
Two people falling and calling it gravity.

Two people drowning, then reaching for the same hands that pushed us under.

When you left, I chased the silence.
When I left, I still carried you back with me.

That is the part I hate.
You lived in me like a second pulse.

Like half my body learned your name and refused to forget it.

I knew I was not good for you.

Deep down, I knew.
And I think you knew the same about yourself.

But knowing did not stop us.
Nothing ever stopped us except silence.

Your family saw a burden.
I saw a person I would have burned beside.

They saw the damage.
I saw the nights you kept me standing when I had nothing left under me.

I saw the hands that held me when the world had no hands for me.

That is why this hurts different.
You were not just someone I wanted.

You were the place I crawled back to when I could not survive myself.

Now you are gone.
No answer.
No ending.

No place to lay down what we were.

Just me, falling slow, still reaching for the person I already know could ruin me.

And the worst truth is simple.

You were bad for me.
I was bad for you.

But I have never felt anything more real.

I came from hard ground and learned early that nothing good walks in clean.

I wore the dust, the anger, the late nights, the bad decisions, the small-town pressure, and the kind of silence that turns a man dangerous if he never finds somewhere to put it. For a long time, I carried fire in my chest and called it survival. I was short-tempered, overworked, under-rested, and too proud to explain the weight I was dragging.

But through all of it, there was always one thing I kept coming back to.

Us.

Every belief I had, I had to defend it with my life. Every dream I wanted, I had to pin it to the wall and stare at it until the world stopped laughing. People called me crazy before they called me focused. They doubted the plan before they saw the work. They saw the dirt, but not the seed underneath it.

I did not build this from comfort.

I built it from pressure.

From nights that ran into mornings. From work that outlasted sleep. From pain I could have wasted, but chose to bury deep enough for something to grow out of it. I took everything that hurt me and turned it into proof.

I have been lost over blank pages. I have stood close to graves and still found a way to write. I have prayed when I had nothing left but breath. I have asked God for water, and somehow, even when I did not deserve it, something still grew.

I am not clean. I am not soft. I am not easy to understand.

But I am loyal to what is real.

And when I look at everything I have chased, everything I have survived, everything I have fought to become, I know the truth.

It was never just ambition.

It was never just money.

It was never just proving them wrong.

It was always about building a life strong enough to hold what mattered.

And somehow, through every late night, every scar, every bad stretch, every mile I had to walk alone, the center of it never changed.

It was always us.

I don’t know when the light left me.
I only know I stopped looking like myself.

There was a time I carried warmth in me. Not innocence. Not peace. Just something alive enough to keep moving without questioning every step. I had firelight then. I had a version of myself I could still recognize in reflections.

Now everything in me feels like smoke.
Not gone.
Worse.

Still here, but impossible to hold.

I left something behind that I should have protected. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was the last clean piece of my heart that still believed leaving did not always mean losing.

But I lost it anyway.

I have been walking with my head above the clouds and my chest buried underground. Close to the sky, far from God. Close to memory, far from home. I keep waiting for some sign that this pain has meaning, that the wreckage is teaching me something, that I am not just being emptied for no reason.

But some nights, the lesson feels like a sentence.

I keep asking myself what changed first.

My path.
My heart.
My warmth.

I used to think people became cold because they chose to. Now I know sometimes the fire just dies slowly, and by the time you notice, you are already standing in the ashes of a life that no longer feels like yours.

I am tired of pretending I am healing when I am only surviving quietly.

Tired of smiling with rain behind my eyes.

Tired of turning my pain into prayers and hoping one of them remembers where I belong.

I don’t know if home is a person, a place, or the version of me I abandoned trying to escape myself.

I only know I need to find it before the smoke finishes swallowing my name.

Because I was not always this.

I was firelight once.

And somewhere under all this ash, I need to believe there is still enough of me left to burn again.

I am not writing this for pity.

I already know what comes with the life I lived.

I know blood doesn’t wash off your hands.

I know some choices follow you even when nobody else is around.

I know there might be a place waiting on me for everything I have done, everything I have seen, and everything I became.

But I am not scared of that no more.
I haven’t been scared since I saw my uncles murder.

I just turned 12. I’m almost 40 now.

I have been in too deep for far too long.

I remember the fear left me when I watched his soul leave his body.

The feelings got quiet. The heart got hard.
I stopped looking for peace because peace never looked for me. Every time I thought I had something solid, life took it.

Every time I counted on somebody making it through, somebody didn’t come back the same.

That really does something to you.

It turned pain into pressure.
Pressure into anger.
Anger into movement.
Movement into survival.

And after a while, survival doesn’t look clean.

People love judging from a safe place.

They talk like they know what they would do, but they don’t know what it feels like to lose people and still have to stand up.

They don’t know what the wall falls like against you back and the ground flat on your feet.

They don’t know what it feels like to wake up sweating, heart beating crazy, with death sitting somewhere in the room like it knows your schedule.

Cold nights.
Long thoughts.
No sleep.
No trust.
No soft place to put none of it.

So I made myself hard.

Not because I wanted to be this way.
This life chose me, I didn’t choose this life.

I remember everything.
I remember who switched.
I remember who disappeared.

I remember who only stood close when it was safe.

I remember who used me for protection and prosperity.

I remember who moved funny and thought I wouldn’t see it.

I remember every loss that took another piece out of me.

And I can never forget any of it.
That’s why I don’t move the same any more.

I don’t beg.
I don’t explain too much.
I don’t chase respect.
I don’t ask for loyalty twice.

You either solid or you ain’t.
You either with me or you in the way.
You either real or you there for decoration.

And if you are the decoration, don’t stand too close when life get heavy.

I used to think pain made people better.
Now I know pain just shows what was already in them.

Some people get humble.
Some people get fake.
Some people run.
Some people fold.

Some people turn cold and keep going because stopping feel worse than dying.

That’s where I’m at.
I could never stop to feel the pain, because the pain and grief compounded into the numbness inside that kept me alive.

Still here.
Still moving.
Still carrying it.
Still not folding.

I ain’t saying I’m right.
I ain’t saying I’m clean.
I ain’t saying I deserve forgiveness.

I’m saying I know exactly what made me.

Loss made me.
Betrayal made me.
Silence made me.
The streets made me.
The people who left made me.
The people who didn’t make it back made me.

So when they say I got no mercy left,
Listen to them they ain’t lying.

Mercy left before I did.

It left me in jail when nobody answered.
It left me when loyalty got weak
It left me when pain kept coming and nobody cared until I changed.

It left when I realized some people only respect boundaries after they feel consequences.

I don’t hate the world.
I just don’t trust it.

And I don’t got time to pretend I’m still the person I was before everything happened.

That version gone. Maybe buried. Maybe burned out. Maybe still somewhere deep inside me, but too far down to reach.

What’s here now is what survived.

So if I don’t make it back, don’t clean the story up.

Don’t make me sound better than I was.

Don’t turn me into something soft for people who couldn’t handle the truth while I was alive.

Just say I felt too much and had nowhere safe to put it.

Just tell them, there was a place in hell waiting for me when I died.

I wish you nothing but success.

I pray the universe keeps you protected on your journey.

May every path you take be cleared before your feet touch the ground.
May harm lose its way before it reaches you.
May hardship pass beside you instead of through you.

I release this prayer without attachment.
No pull.
No claim.
No weight.

Only frequency.

Only light moving through the field.
Only intention dissolving into the current of everything that exists.

As the edges of self soften, as ego loses its name, as consciousness expands beyond memory and form, I send this into the universe:

May you be guided.
May you be guarded.
May peace find you in every room you enter.
May success arrive without taking anything sacred from you.
May your spirit stay intact through every season meant to shape you.

I ask nothing back.

I only send protection into the infinite, and trust the universe knows where to place it.

It begins with what I allow into my mind and what I refuse to let control my direction.

I am not available for doubt anymore.

I am not building from fear, lack, confusion, or old pain.

I am building from certainty.

For a long time, I gave attention to what was missing, what was unclear, and what was not aligned. That version of me was learning. This version of me knows.

I do not chase what is meant for me.

I do not beg life to reveal the outcome.

I do not shrink myself to be chosen.

I move with purpose, and what belongs in my life meets me there.

My focus is locked in.

My standards are clear.

My energy is protected.

My future is not something I hope for.

It is something I am creating.

Everything aligned with me has room to enter. Everything misaligned with me has permission to leave.

I am not stuck in the past.

I am not waiting for permission.

I am not questioning my worth.

I am stepping into the life I already know is mine.

You do not wait until you are ready.

You move, and readiness meets you in the momentum.

That is what I understand now.

I spent too long standing at the edge of my own life, waiting for the right moment, the right answer, the right sign, the right person to believe in the vision with me.

But waiting did not build anything.

Waiting only gave uncertainty more room to breathe.

I am done mistaking stillness for patience.

I am done calling hesitation love.

I am done grieving misalignment like it is some permanent sentence over my life.

It is not.

Misalignment was the lesson.
Action is the answer.

I am aligned now.

Not almost.
Not someday.
Not when everything feels safe.

Now.

I am aligned with the man I am becoming.
I am aligned with the future I see.
I am aligned with the love I know I can give.
I am aligned with the life I am no longer willing to beg anyone to believe in.

A vision without belief is fantasy.

So I am done fantasizing.

I am building.

I am moving with purpose.
I am choosing with clarity.
I am acting without needing approval from anyone who only understood me after I started walking away.

This is not sadness anymore.

This is momentum.

I know what I want.

I want love that moves with me.
I want truth that does not hide.
I want loyalty that does not need to be decoded.
I want peace that does not punish me for needing it.
I want someone who does not just see the vision, but steps into it with both feet.

Not by force.
Not by pressure.
Not because I begged.

Because they believe.

Because they choose.

Because they are aligned too.

So this is where I stand.

I am ready.

Not because the fear is gone.
Not because the pain disappeared.
Not because everything is perfect.

I am ready because I am moving anyway.

Will you align with me?

Not in silence.
Not in signs.
Not in almost.
Not in words that never become action.

In motion.

Because I am not waiting for life to prove I am ready anymore.

I am ready because I started.

One day, no contact will end.

Not because one of us finally reaches out.
Not because one of us admits anything.
Not because we found the right words.

Because life eventually forces certain rooms open.

One of us will be standing there.
One of us will not be able to speak.

No explanation then.
No argument.
No pride.
No version to defend.
No chance to ask what was real, what was wasted, or what still mattered.

That room may be a funeral.

I hope it’s not empty on a cold rainy day like we always cried to each other

That is the part I refuse to pretend away.

I do not want the first real goodbye between us to happen after time has already made it final.

This is not a loophole through silence.
This is not me begging for repair.
This is not me trying to make you feel guilty.

This is me stating what is true.

We invested too much into each other for me to act like it was nothing. Some of it broke. Some of it got ugly. Some of it should have been handled better. But it mattered, and pretending it did not is its own kind of lie.

Repair gets less possible every day.

That is not punishment.
That is not drama.
That is just what time does when two people keep walking away from the same unfinished thing.

If I go first, our Junk is yours.

Care for and love our Junk the right way. That part matters more than I can explain here, and I should not have to.

I trust you to pick up where I left off.

That trust is mine but yours too, and I am placing it safely with you into the future, where there is greener grass for both of you to run free.

I do not know what happens after this.

Maybe nothing.
Maybe this is where it stays.
Maybe life keeps moving until that room opens and one of us has to stand there with every word we never said.

I am not waiting for a funeral to say mine.

So I am saying it now.

Not because I stopped caring.
Not because it meant nothing.

Because one day, one of us will not be able to speak, and I refuse to leave every honest word trapped behind pride, silence, or time.

I love you and..

Goodbye, if this is goodbye.

Your desperation did more than expose you.

It clarified the scoreboard.

The staged details, the fake angles, the little breadcrumbs placed just carefully enough to be noticed none of it read like confidence.

It read like panic.

That was useful.

You were trying to trigger a reaction, but all you really did was confirm what I needed to know.

You are losing control of the narrative.

Thanks for making that obvious.

The mask slipped.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough.

Different accounts. Different subs. Different angles. Same pattern.

One post pretending to be one person. Another response pretending to be someone else. Just enough familiar detail to make it feel intentional. Just enough breadcrumbs to make jealousy look like the point.

For a second, it worked.

Then I remembered something obvious.

You are not that bold.

You are private. Careful. Controlled. You do not move like that unless the goal is reaction, not truth.

The details were not mistakes. They were bait.

I saw it.

I just do not care enough to bite anymore.

I don’t want this to sound like a demand.

I’m not asking anyone to drop everything, fix me, or carry my life for me. I just need to say this somewhere because I feel lost, and I don’t know what else to do with it.

I don’t know where to go or what to do anymore and that’s not me, that’s never been me it’s fucking with my head

I’ve spent so long trying to be strong for everyone else that I don’t know how to admit I’m not okay. I hate asking for help. I hate venting. I hate feeling like my pain adds weight to someone else’s life.

That’s what hurts most.

I feel like a burden.

Even saying that makes me feel guilty, because I know everyone has their own problems. I know people are tired. I know life is heavy for everybody. That’s why I usually keep it to myself. I don’t want pity. I don’t want attention. I don’t want gossip. I don’t want anyone to feel forced to care.

But I am not okay.

I feel like I’ve been there for people, carried things quietly, and kept myself together because falling apart felt selfish. Now I don’t know where I fit. I don’t know who I can safely be honest with. I don’t know how to say I’m struggling without feeling like I’m making myself someone else’s problem.

So I’m saying this as carefully as I can:

If anyone genuinely cares, I could use someone to care without making me feel like needing someone is too much to ask..

Not to judge me.
Not to lecture me.
Not to make it about them.
Not to save me in one conversation.

Just to remind me I’m not completely alone.

Because I feel lost.
I feel tired. I feel like I’ve been strong for everyone else, and now I don’t know who I’m supposed to be strong for when I have nothing left.

I don’t want to be a burden.

I just don’t know how to keep pretending I’m okay..

I am not okay and I hate saying it.

I feel lost and it’s fucking with my head that I can’t find my way.