I used to think love was the answer.
That if I just loved someone enough—loud enough, fiercely enough—they'd finally stay.
But the truth is, I don't even know what staying feels like. Not really.
I was thirteen when I first learned how easily hearts can change. Fourteen when I realized promises don't mean anything if they're made on lips that lie. Fifteen when I stopped believing in the word "i love you" And by sixteen, I stopped believing in myself.
I don't think anyone ever teaches you how to rebuild from that.
Right now, I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, wearing a hoodie that isn't mine and makeup I forgot to take off last night. My room is a mess....like me, I guess. There's a cracked compact on the floor, notebooks with half-written thoughts, and an untouched mirror across the room I've been avoiding for days.
Nigel is texting me again.
"Did you eat?"
I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. My stomach churns at the question. Not because he's asking.....he always does.....but because I don't know how to answer anymore. My relationship with food has become as complicated as my relationship with him. Some days, I punish myself with hunger. Other days, I punish myself with guilt.
"Yeah," I lied, before tossing the phone aside.
I'm tired of being the girl who lies to protect other's feelings for her
Nigel is sweet, in his own way. Gentle when I break down, patient when I pull away.
But loving him feels like holding my breath underwater. You can do it for a while, but eventually, you need air.
The problem is, I don't even know what air feels like anymore.
I used to write poems about the boy I thought I'd marry. I used to imagine my life unfolding like one of those movie montages where the girl finds herself, becomes everything she was meant to be, and ends up stronger. But I've been stuck in the middle scene for too long....the one where she's still crying in the bathroom, still waiting for someone to pick her.
No one ever tells you that you can pick yourself.
Not your mom, who tells you to "smile more." Not your friends, who think you're "so lucky to have him." Not even the boy who says he loves you, but makes you feel heavy in your own skin.
The truth hit me last week. I was standing in front of that damn mirror, wearing a dress I thought would make me feel pretty. Instead, I saw someone I didn't recognize—someone whose smile didn't reach her eyes, whose collarbones made her feel validated, and whose silence felt safer than asking for more.
That's when it clicked.
I can love Nigel. I can love him deeply. I can believe he means well, that he's trying, that maybe he really does care.
But I can still choose myself.
I can choose to get out of bed, even if I have to crawl first. I can choose to eat something without crying afterward. I can choose to write again, even if the words come out messy. I can choose to stay alone, not because I'm lonely—but because I'm learning to enjoy my own company.
This isn't going to be easy. Healing never is. But I owe it to the girl I used to be—the girl who thought she had to shrink to be loved—to finally grow.
Because I'm not who I was.
Not anymore.