Is this enough?
I don’t even know why I’m still asking. But here I am, wondering if this, whatever this is—is enough for me.
I’m tired. Tired of waiting around for something that feels like it’s always just out of reach. Tired of feeling like I’m the only one trying to hold on while he’s halfway gone. Tired of wondering if I’m too much or not enough, if I’m crazy for wanting clarity, or if I’m just overthinking it all.
The truth is—I’m scared. Scared because I don’t feel safe here. I don’t feel wanted. I don’t feel like someone who’s really chosen. I’m in this constant state of trying to read the signs, decode his silence, catch the small moments where maybe, just maybe, he actually cares. But mostly, I’m left empty. Waiting. Anxious. Alone.
I knew this was going to hurt. I knew that from the start. But I never imagined it would hurt this much. This kind of pain—the kind that crushes your chest and leaves you breathless. The kind that makes you question everything about yourself. That’s the worst kind of pain.
And it’s not just about him.
It’s about every time I’ve ever been left behind. Every time I’ve been ghosted by love, by people I trusted. Every time I felt invisible, like I was just background noise in someone else’s life. Every time I was left standing outside looking in, hoping to be seen, hoping to be chosen—and never being.
This—this relationship—is a trigger for all that old pain. It pulls it right to the surface. The abandonment, the broken trust, the aching loneliness. It’s like every wound I’ve ever had is being rubbed raw all over again.
And what breaks me most isn’t just the silence or the distance—it’s the words.
The echoes he throws out like knives:
“I don’t like you.”
“There’s no space for you here.”
Those words don’t just sting. They cut deep, deeper than I want to admit.
I’ve been shrinking. Shrinking my needs. Shrinking my voice. Shrinking myself just so I don’t scare him off. But that’s exhausting. And I’m so damn tired of pretending that’s okay.
This isn’t love.
But he already told me he couldn’t love me—so why am I surprised?
Why did I keep hoping I’d be the exception? Why did I stay, believing I could be enough to change his mind?
This isn’t what I deserve.
This is loneliness wearing a disguise.
I’m done hoping that caring more will fix it. I’m done believing that if I try harder, he’ll finally see me. Because I see now—what I want, what I deserve—is so much more than this mess.
I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if I’m ready to let go.
Dose of chevvi 