How can someone fill your heart
like sunlight through cracked windows,
teach your ribs how to breathe again,
make silence feel safe…
and still leave earthquakes behind?
You showed up like medicine.
Like home in human form.
Your laugh rewrote my bad days,
your presence stitched courage
back into places I forgot existed.
You became ritual.
Morning thoughts.
Late-night prayers.
A heartbeat I learned to recognize
in crowded rooms.
You filled me
with hope,
with warmth,
with the kind of love that teaches survival.
And then somehow
you also became the storm.
The unanswered questions.
The pauses that grew teeth.
The distance that learned my name
and started calling it in echoes.
You broke me
without raising your voice.
Without slamming doors.
Just by slowly leaving pieces of yourself behind
until I couldn’t tell
what was mine anymore.
Funny how love can be both shelter and wreckage.
How someone can build gardens in your chest
and still walk away holding the matches.
I don’t hate you.
I just grieve
the version of us
that felt eternal.
I grieve the promises
that lived only in energy,
the futures we spoke in glances,
the way I trusted your heart
with parts of mine
that had already survived war.
You filled my heart
so beautifully.
And broke it
so quietly.
Now I carry both.
The love.
And the lesson.
Because sometimes
the same hands that teach you how to feel again
also teach you
how to heal alone.