Raw Emotional Confessionals

I’m writing this now because it’s too late to say it out loud.

And maybe that’s the point.

You never heard me—not really. You heard the filtered versions of me: the polite one, the funny one, the one who apologized too much. I told you I was fine even when I couldn’t breathe. I laughed at your jokes when they cut like glass. I pretended the silence between us was peaceful instead of painful.

But the truth?

The truth is ugly.

The truth is I loved you more than I knew how to say. And I hated you for making me feel small.

Let me start from the beginning—before you became the ghost I now argue with in my head, before I learned to smile through teeth clenched so tight they cracked.

We met on a Tuesday. Isn’t that boring? Isn’t that human? No fireworks. No slow-motion scene in a movie. Just you, leaning against the coffee shop counter, complaining that the espresso tasted like burnt sorrow. And I laughed—because I thought you were clever. You looked at me and said, “I didn’t mean to make you laugh, but I’m glad I did.”

That was your magic, I suppose. You never meant to hurt me, but you did. You never meant to love me, but you tried. You never meant to leave me, but you were already halfway out the door long before you said goodbye.

I used to reread your texts like they were scripture. Highlight the parts where you said, I miss you already and you feel like home. I pinned them to the inside of my heart like sticky notes on a cluttered fridge. Maybe, if I read them enough, they’d come true.

But you always had a way of disappearing.

You’d go quiet for days. Weeks. Then return with something clever—always with a “hey stranger” or “I’ve been thinking about you.” And I’d melt. Again.

You said you weren’t good at feelings. That you weren’t raised to express affection. That emotions were like foreign languages—you could hear them but didn’t speak them fluently.

I tried to be fluent enough for both of us.

I forgave you things I told others I’d never tolerate. I waited when you said, Not now, I’m not ready. I shrank my voice so yours could fill the room.

And still—you never stayed.

Here’s my raw confession, since I never had the nerve to say it while you were still listening:

You broke me in soft, slow ways.

Not with slaps or screams, but with unfinished sentences, vanished plans, and half-empty promises. You made me believe love was a puzzle I had to solve. That if I could just be better—quieter, prettier, calmer—you’d finally choose me without hesitation.

But you never did.

And I started to think that meant I wasn’t enough.

Do you know what that kind of doubt does to a person?

It becomes a mirror you carry everywhere. You start looking for rejection even in kindness. You assume everyone is going to leave, because the one who mattered most did so without even looking back.

You told me once that you admired how deeply I felt everything. But when I bled honesty, you turned away.

Remember the night I told you I was scared of being invisible?

You kissed my forehead and said, “You could never be invisible to me.”

But days later, you stopped answering my messages.

And silence—that silence was the loudest thing you ever said.

I have screamed into pillows with your name stuck between my teeth.

I have written letters I never sent. Typed messages I deleted before you could read them. Practiced conversations in the shower where you finally said, I’m sorry.

But you never did.

Maybe I’m still angry. Not just at you—but at myself.

For staying.

For hoping.

For loving someone who only ever loved me halfway.

You didn’t destroy me.

Let me be clear about that.

You disassembled me.

Quietly.

Like removing one brick from a tower each day until it falls and everyone acts surprised. But I watched you take each brick, and I said nothing.

I’m learning now how to rebuild.

Brick by brick.

Without you.

I don’t romanticize you anymore. I don’t check your social media hoping for a sign. I don’t count the months since we last spoke like a child counting coins.

But I still think of you when certain songs come on.

I still flinch when I hear your name in someone else’s mouth.

I still wake up sometimes with your voice in my dream saying, I wish I had tried harder.

Maybe you do.

Or maybe you don’t think of me at all.

So, here it is:

I loved you. Wildly. Stupidly. Softly.

I gave you more of me than I should have.

And you gave just enough to keep me hungry.

But I’m done starving.

This is my raw confession: not because I need you to hear it—but because I need to say it.

I forgive you. Even if you never say sorry.

But more importantly—I forgive myself.

For not knowing when to walk away.

For loving someone who didn’t love me back with the same fire.

For breaking into pieces and still handing you the sharpest ones.

Some nights, I still wonder what you would say if I sent this.

But I won’t.

Because this confession isn’t for you.

It’s for the version of me who waited. Who hoped. Who hurt.

And it’s for the version of me who is finally learning:

I don’t have to bleed to be seen.