I Was Just an Option — But He Was My Everything

There’s a special kind of ache that comes from being an afterthought to someone who’s your everything. It doesn’t arrive all at once. It builds. Quietly. At first, it’s the unanswered messages. The postponed plans. The subtle shift in energy. You feel it before you name it — a gentle ache in your chest every time he pulls away and calls it “being busy.”

You tell yourself not to overthink. That he’ll come around. That love sometimes looks like patience. But deep down, you start shrinking. You become less of yourself to take up less space. You don’t ask for much. You celebrate the breadcrumbs. A late-night text. A quick call. A rushed dinner after days of silence. You cherish them, even though they feel hollow because it’s all you’re given.

I used to think love was about holding on. I held on even when it hurt. Even when his words didn’t match his actions. Even when I could feel — bone-deep — that I wasn’t a priority. He never said I mattered, but he never said I didn’t either. And so I stayed suspended in the maybe, living in the gray. Waiting for clarity that never came. Hoping that one day he’d finally see me.

I showed up with open hands and an honest heart. But he only ever gave me pieces. And when I cried, I did it in private. I didn’t want to be the “needy” one. I didn’t want to scare him off. So I carried the weight of the relationship alone, hoping my love would be enough to carry us both.

But it wasn’t. One night, I remember sitting on my bed staring at the ceiling, phone in hand, waiting for a text that never came. It was my birthday. He had forgotten. Or maybe he remembered and chose silence. I’m not sure which hurt more. I cried until my chest hurt — not because I needed the birthday wishes, but because I realized how easy I was to forget. I had made someone a priority who hadn’t even saved the date. That night, something cracked. It wasn’t a loud break. It was soft. Hollow. Like a mirror fracturing slowly from the inside out.

We don’t talk enough about what it feels like to be the one who stays long after you should have left. To be the one who explains away bad behavior because you saw “potential.” To be the one who believed love could change someone. That your consistency would make up for their absence. I excused things I shouldn’t have. I romanticized the scraps. I confused attention with affection. And I kept telling myself, “He just needs time.” But the truth is — if someone wanted to choose you, they would. And if they don’t, no amount of proving your worth will make them see it.

I think the hardest part wasn’t even losing him. It was losing me. The me who used to smile without checking for a phone notification. The me who didn’t second-guess her words. The me who believed she deserved a love that felt like home — not a test. I dimmed so much of myself just to fit into the tiny space he offered. And I did it willingly. Believing that’s what love required. I didn’t know then that love doesn’t ask you to disappear.

The day I walked away, it wasn’t dramatic. No screaming. No final confrontation. No closure. Just quiet. I stopped reaching out. Stopped explaining. Stopped begging to be seen. And in that silence, I found myself again. The grief came in waves. Not for him but for the parts of me I lost trying to be “enough.” I mourned the girl who believed that love meant self-abandonment. The girl who thought that her softness made her weak. The girl who kept watering a connection that never grew.

But I also began to rebuild. Piece by piece, I came home to myself. I remembered how full my laugh used to sound. How peaceful my life felt without confusion. How beautiful it was to be loved — truly loved — starting with me. Because the truth is, being someone’s option is not your destiny. You are not meant to be picked only when it’s convenient. You are not meant to wait in the wings of someone else’s uncertainty. You are not a placeholder. You are the main story. The whole book. The heart that deserves to be held, not just touched.

To anyone reading this who’s still holding on: I know how much it hurts. I know the ache of “almost.” I know the pain of being good to someone who can’t meet you there. But please — don’t let it convince you that you’re hard to love. You’re not too much. You’re just too real for someone who only knows how to love halfway.

One day, someone will look at you and see you. Not the version of you that pleases, shrinks, or over-gives but the whole, radiant truth of you. Until then, love yourself that way. Don’t be loyal to your own breaking. Don’t bleed for someone who won’t even hold your hand. Don’t write chapters for someone who never learned to read your soul. You deserve a love that doesn’t make you question your worth. A love that feels like a mirror not a maze. A love that whispers, “I see you. I choose you. Every day.”

So, no — I won’t hate him. He taught me something precious. He showed me what it feels like to be an option. So I could finally become someone who chooses herself. And that? That is everything.