" I Loved Him More Than He Deserved"

I knew he wasn’t good for me. Not right away, of course—these things never happen all at once. It’s a slow unraveling. A quiet shifting of lines you swore you’d never cross. I didn’t fall in love with a villain. I fell in love with someone who didn’t know how to love me back—and I stayed too long trying to teach him.

It started beautifully, the way most heartbreaks do. He was charming, attentive, funny in that disarming kind of way. He remembered little things—my favorite tea, the song I hummed absentmindedly, the name of my childhood dog. It felt like someone had finally seen me.

But slowly, the light dimmed.

He started showing up late—not just to dinners or dates, but emotionally. The way he used to ask how my day was, then actually listen? Gone. Conversations became one-sided. I stopped sharing because I didn’t want to be a burden. Love, I told myself, was compromise. I just didn’t know I was the only one compromising.

Then came the guilt. Subtle, at first. He’d say things like “You’re just too sensitive,” when I tried to set a boundary. Or “You’re always looking for something to be upset about.” I started questioning myself. Was I really overreacting? Was it me?

I began shrinking in quiet ways—avoiding conflict, laughing off things that hurt, apologizing for simply having needs. I made myself small, just to keep the peace. Just to keep him.

Because when it was good, it was still so good. And I clung to those moments like lifelines. One kind text could erase days of cold silence. One night of passion could drown out the loneliness.

But love shouldn’t feel like a gamble you’re always losing.

There’s a special kind of ache that comes from realizing the person you love is incapable—or unwilling—to love you well. It’s not that he didn’t care at all. I know, in his own way, he did. But he didn’t respect me. He didn’t show up for me. And eventually, I had to accept that love isn’t enough when it isn’t healthy.

The hardest part wasn’t leaving. It was admitting that I had betrayed myself in the process of loving him. That I saw the signs but silenced my own intuition. That I gave chances to someone who only took advantage of them. That I made excuses for behavior I’d never tolerate in someone else.

I wasn’t a victim. I was a volunteer.

But here’s what no one tells you: when you finally walk away, healing doesn’t feel victorious. It feels like grief. It feels like standing in the wreckage of your own heart, wondering how you let it get this far.

I cried. A lot. I deleted photos. I blocked his number. I wrote letters I never sent. And then slowly, painfully, I began coming back to myself. I remembered the things I loved before him. I reached out to friends I had drifted from. I forgave myself.

Loving him was a chapter in my story—but it’s not the whole book.

Now, I no longer chase people to stay. I no longer measure my worth by someone else’s ability to love me. I no longer confuse chaos for passion. I know now that the right love won’t make me beg. It won’t confuse me. And it definitely won’t make me feel small.

Some lessons come softly. This one came like a storm. But I survived it. And in the aftermath, I grew.

I loved him more than he deserved.

But now—I love me more than I ever thought possible.

Sometimes, I wonder if he ever thinks of me. If he realizes what he lost, or if he even knows he broke something that was never his to break. But the truth is, it doesn’t matter anymore. Healing taught me that closure doesn’t come from someone else’s apology. It comes from finally choosing yourself—and meaning it.