I Loved Him. But I Loved Myself More

I met him on a rainy Wednesday. The kind of rain that feels like a quiet cleansing—gentle, persistent, and oddly romantic. He was standing in line at a bookstore café, holding a worn copy of Norwegian Wood and glancing at the sky like it held all the answers. I noticed the sadness in his eyes before I noticed anything else.

He smiled at me like he knew me.

And maybe, in a way, he did. We were both tired souls, searching for warmth in a world that had gone cold.

We fell fast. Too fast.

He had a way of making me feel like I was the only one in the room. His attention was intoxicating—like sunlight pouring into a dark room. I mistook that for love. For safety. For forever.

But love, real love, doesn't ask you to shrink to fit it.

In the beginning, I didn’t notice the little things. The way he would talk over me during conversations. How he’d make “jokes” about my dreams—telling me writing was just a phase, that no one actually makes a living from poetry. He said he was just being “realistic.”

I called it teasing. But deep down, I felt the sting.

I started changing in small ways. I stopped wearing red lipstick because he said it was “too much.” I laughed less. I stopped submitting my writing because he said rejections were inevitable and he didn’t want to see me hurt.

The girl who once danced barefoot in her apartment to Nina Simone stopped dancing altogether.

Still, I stayed.

Why? Because I loved him. Because we had good moments, too—long walks at midnight, whispered secrets, slow kisses on Sunday mornings. Because I thought love was supposed to be a little painful. Because I thought maybe if I was patient enough, kind enough, quiet enough… it would all be okay.

But one day, I caught myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the woman staring back.

She looked tired. Dull. Dimmed.

That scared me more than losing him ever could.

It wasn’t a dramatic breakup. There were no shouting matches, no slammed doors, no ultimatums. Just a quiet Sunday afternoon, where I finally found the courage to say: “I can’t do this anymore.”

He looked at me like I had betrayed him.

But the real betrayal would’ve been staying.

That day, I chose myself. And it hurt. God, it hurt like hell. Because choosing yourself when your heart still loves someone else is the bravest kind of heartbreak.

I cried for weeks. I missed him in waves—sudden and overwhelming. I missed the version of me that believed we were soulmates. I missed the dreams we had painted in quiet conversations under moonlight.

But day by day, I started coming back to myself.

I wrote again.

I wore red lipstick.

I danced in my kitchen, barefoot and laughing.

And slowly, the ache in my chest transformed into something else: pride.

Because I didn’t leave because I stopped loving him. I left because I finally started loving myself more.

And that’s the part we don’t talk about enough—the quiet, revolutionary act of choosing yourself. Of realizing that love should never cost you your voice, your joy, your identity.

He wasn’t a villain. He was just a mirror showing me what I was willing to tolerate, how much I was willing to give, and what it looked like when love required sacrifice without reciprocity.

I don’t hate him. I hope he’s healing, growing, learning to love without control.

But I no longer romanticize the pain.

Now, when I meet someone new, I don’t dim my light to make them comfortable. I don’t apologize for dreaming loudly or loving boldly. I know now that the right person won’t just accept me—they’ll celebrate me.

And I won’t settle for anything less.

Because I loved him. Truly.

But I love myself more.


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