Two ways to lose me

I think what hurts the most
is realizing
it wasn’t just one of you.

It was two different people
teaching me
the same lesson
in opposite ways.

One of you—
you were the almost.

Seventy-eight days
of something that felt like
it was becoming real.

You were the good mornings,
the routine,
the slow build
into something I thought
might stay.

Until one day
“we’re moving too fast”
really meant
you were already leaving.

Your silence wasn’t loud—
it was careful.

It was read receipts
with no reply.
Conversations that lost depth
before they disappeared.

You didn’t crash out of my life.
You faded.

And somehow
that hurt worse.
The other one—

you never even tried
to stay.

You don’t reach for me
in the quiet.

Only when the night
gets heavy.
When the drinks hit.
When loneliness
starts asking questions
you don’t want to answer alone.

That’s when I exist to you.

Not as a habit.
Not as a priority.

Just… an option.

And the worst part?

Part of me still softens
when your name shows up.

Like my heart doesn’t care
what version of you it gets—
as long as it gets you.

⸻

But here’s the truth
I keep trying to swallow—

One of you taught me
what it feels like
to slowly lose something
I thought was growing.

The other
is teaching me
what it feels like
to never be chosen at all.

⸻

And somewhere in between
those two versions of heartbreak—

is me.

Still wanting
to be someone’s
good morning.
Someone’s safe place.
Someone’s first thought
without having to ask for it.

Sad, Sad, Sentimental