When You Love Someone More Than They Love You

You think love is supposed to grow in equal measure.

You imagine it like two vines climbing a wall, wrapping around each other, steady, slow, and synchronized.

But what happens when one grows faster? Harder? Deeper?

What happens when you’re giving everything, and they’re just… receiving?

It doesn’t break all at once.

It breaks quietly.

And you don’t even know your heart has been walking alone until you look beside you—and no one’s there.

Daniel came into my life with the kind of charm that made people lean in. A crooked smile. A voice that made silence seem unnecessary. He wasn’t the loudest in the room, but he was the one everyone noticed.

We met at a casual game night my coworker insisted I attend. I was coming off a string of lifeless dating app experiences—forced small talk, ghosted connections, and those who never made it past dinner. I wasn’t expecting anything.

But Daniel was different.

He listened. Really listened. When I mentioned I collected vintage postcards, his eyes lit up. “That’s weird,” he said. “But in the best way.”

We laughed. We stayed late. He walked me to my car.

And for the first time in years, I left a date feeling seen.

The first three months felt like something out of a storybook written by someone who still believed in romance.

He remembered little details—how I hated cilantro, how I preferred voice notes over texts, how my laugh got louder when I was truly happy.

He bought me coffee with my exact order: almond milk, one pump hazelnut, no whip.

He even once surprised me with a book I mentioned offhand weeks earlier. It wasn’t just the gesture. It was the fact that he was paying attention.

My walls came down.

I let myself believe this was it.

That I’d found the kind of love that finally matched mine.

But love, I’ve learned, has two speeds.

And mine was always going a little too fast.

The first signs didn’t look like red flags. They looked like normal moments you excuse when you care about someone.

He forgot our dinner plans. Twice.

He started answering texts with just “lol” or “k.”

When I brought him his favorite pastries during a stressful week, he said, “Thanks,” without looking up from his laptop.

Not rude. Not unkind.

Just… disengaged.

But I made excuses.

“He’s tired.”

“He’s not a words person.”

“Not everyone expresses love the same way.”

I clung to that last one like a lifeline. I started reading about love languages, compatibility, emotional availability.

I told myself I just needed to love him harder. More patiently. More selflessly.

I was sure that if I just loved him enough, he’d eventually catch up.

But loving someone more than they love you isn’t noble.

It’s lonely.

It’s not the big moments where you feel the gap. It’s in the silences that follow your joy.

The night I got promoted, I came home with champagne and nervous excitement. I had been dreaming of this opportunity for years—leading my own team, having my ideas heard.

Daniel smiled when I told him.

“That’s great,” he said, and went back to his phone.

That was it.

No celebration. No questions. Not even eye contact.

And I laughed. Because what else do you do when you expect fireworks and get a spark?

That night, I lay in bed next to him, his back turned, scrolling through something I wasn’t part of, and I felt a loneliness so deep I could feel it in my bones.

I had become a supporting character in my own love story.

The realization didn’t come with a bang. It came at brunch.

We were with friends, talking about grand romantic gestures. People shared their stories—one couple had written love letters, another had done a surprise trip.

I shared how I once stood in the snow for over an hour just to surprise Daniel with coffee before his big meeting. Everyone “awww’d.”

Then someone turned to him: “What’s the most romantic thing you’ve done for her?”

Daniel blinked. Hesitated. Then said, “I picked up her dry cleaning once?”

People laughed nervously.

I smiled. I played it off. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal.

But something cracked open inside me.

Not because he hadn’t done anything romantic.

But because he hadn’t even thought of one.

I had built shrines out of moments. He hadn’t even saved the receipts.

I wish I could say I left right away. That I stood up, declared I deserved more, and walked out like a Netflix heroine.

But real life isn’t scripted. It’s messy. And sometimes, the strongest chains are made of hope.

I stayed.

Not because I was blind, but because I was invested. Because I remembered who he was at the start. Because I believed he could come back.

So I kept trying.

I gave more.

He gave the same.

And slowly, I started to disappear.

It was a quiet Sunday morning.

I made breakfast—his favorite. Eggs over medium, rye toast, tea with honey. I set the table, hoping today would be different.

He sat down, scrolled his phone, said, “Thanks,” and started eating.

I told him I was thinking of moving apartments, of taking a trip alone. I asked what he thought.

“Up to you,” he mumbled.

No curiosity. No connection. Just autopilot.

And in that moment, I realized:

I could disappear tomorrow, and he wouldn’t feel it until he needed clean socks.

That’s what loving someone more than they love you feels like.

You become useful.

But never essential.

I didn’t slam doors or scream. I didn’t demand closure or send a dramatic text.

I just… stopped.

Stopped reaching out first. Stopped filling the silence. Stopped twisting myself into a shape he might finally love back.

When I told him I was done, he just sighed and said, “I figured this was coming.”

No fight. No emotion.

He let me go as easily as he forgot my birthday that one year.

And that, more than anything, told me I made the right choice.

Because I never want to beg someone to love me again.

Healing isn’t pretty. It’s not bubble baths and inspirational quotes.

It’s crying on the floor of your kitchen because you heard a song that reminded you of him.

It’s deleting pictures and then re-downloading them just to look one more time.

It’s asking yourself if you overreacted, even though you know you didn’t.

But with time, healing becomes quieter.

You stop checking your phone for their name.

You start remembering who you were before you loved them more than yourself.

You reclaim your joy.

You learn to be alone without being lonely.

And eventually, you stop loving them—not out of hate, but out of peace.

I love again now.

But slower. Smarter. With the lights on.

I don’t chase lukewarm affection or apologize for needing depth.

I don’t confuse attention with effort or potential with presence.

Now, I watch how someone shows up.

Do they listen?

Do they ask?

Do they remember?

Because love is not just about being chosen.

It’s about being valued.

And I will never again pour my soul into someone who only wants a taste of it.

Final Words: If You’re Still There

If you’re still in it—still loving someone who doesn’t love you the same—I see you.

I know it feels brave to stay.

But sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is leave.

Not because you stopped loving them.

But because you finally started loving yourself more.