You Loved Me Like I Was Temporary

I used to think love was something you could hold onto if you gripped it tightly enough. I thought that if I gave enough, stayed long enough, and believed hard enough, it would last. But with you, I learned that sometimes love is a place you visit, not a place you live.

When we first met, you smiled like the sun had chosen you as its favorite. Your laugh was warm enough to melt my hesitation, and the way you said my name felt like you were planting roots in my life. You made ordinary moments extraordinary — coffee tasted better, rain felt softer, and nights seemed shorter when you were in them.

For a while, I believed we were building something real. You made plans with me. Not just for tomorrow, but for years ahead. You talked about the apartment we’d find together, the trips we’d take, the dog we’d name after your favorite musician. I thought those dreams meant permanence. I didn’t realize they could be rented instead of owned.

Little signs crept in, at first so faint I ignored them. The way your phone always seemed to face down on the table. How your replies came slower, your gaze drifting somewhere I couldn’t follow. When I asked what was wrong, you’d smile that same sunlit smile and say, “Nothing, love. You overthink too much.”

But my heart noticed what my mind tried to deny — love was leaking out of you.

You began to treat my presence like background music: nice when it was there, easy to tune out. I would tell you about my day, my fears, my silly dreams, and your eyes would glaze over. You weren’t cruel. You didn’t shout or fight. You were worse — you became indifferent.

One night, as we walked home, you let your hand slip from mine without even noticing. It stayed at your side the rest of the way, and I realized you hadn’t reached for me first in weeks.

I started to shrink myself, to fit into the fading space you allowed me. I laughed louder, smiled brighter, made fewer demands — as if becoming easier to love would make you stay. But love isn’t kept by begging; it’s kept by wanting. And you no longer wanted me in the same way.

The last conversation we had as a couple wasn’t an argument. It was quiet. You sat across from me at the small café where we first met. You stirred your coffee without looking at me, as if the liquid was more interesting than the person who loved you.

“I think,” you said slowly, “we’ve run our course.”

Like we were a show you’d grown bored of watching.

You didn’t fight for me. You didn’t even hesitate. And in that moment, I realized you’d been practicing this goodbye long before your mouth spoke it.

I walked away that day with my chest hollowed out, wondering if I had imagined everything we shared. But the truth is, you loved me — just not enough to keep me. You loved me like I was a chapter in your life, not the whole book. You loved me like I was temporary.

It hurt in a way that’s hard to explain, a dull ache that followed me into the quietest hours of the night. For weeks, I searched for the version of you who once looked at me like I was magic. But that version was gone, and the one you’d become couldn’t even see me anymore.

Time moved on, as it always does. The sharp edges of your absence began to dull. I learned to drink coffee without hearing your laugh in the steam. I stopped checking my phone for messages that never came. I started filling my life with people and moments that stayed.

One evening, months later, I saw you across the street. You looked the same — still wearing that sunlit smile — but I realized something. It didn’t pull me in anymore. I didn’t feel that desperate need to run to you.

Because I had learned something too: just because someone loves you doesn’t mean they’re meant to stay. Some people are meant to be a beautiful place you visit. And some loves, no matter how bright they burn, are not built to last.

And that’s okay.

Because now I know — I am not temporary