A Letter to The One Who Thought They Were Saving Me By Leaving

It was never your decision to decide what was or wasn’t best for me.

But you did it anyway—

wrapped your absence in the language of sacrifice

and called it love.

You told me I deserved more.

That someone else would love me the way I was meant to be loved—

as if that was supposed to comfort me.

As if your exit would protect me.

As if I couldn’t be trusted to choose my own heartache.

You walked away like a storm worried about ruining the flowers,

never stopping to realize

that I was the kind of person who blooms in rain.

The kind who knows some gardens only grow

because they’ve survived the flood.

You didn’t ask if I wanted saving.

You didn’t believe that someone could love you and all your wreckage.

So you left.

You chose silence where you owed truth.

And no—

I don’t think you were trying to hurt me.

You were trying to save me.

From yourself.

From the parts of you that you were too ashamed to show.

But that kind of saving isn’t rooted in love.

It’s rooted in fear.

Because if you had loved me from a place of truth—

you would’ve stayed.

You would’ve let me choose you back.

You would’ve believed me

when I said you were enough.

But you didn’t trust that you could be someone worth staying for.

So you made the decision for both of us.

And still...

if you showed up today—trembling and tired,

with your heart in your hands and your past on your back—

I’d recognize you.

I’d still know how to hold the broken pieces

you thought made you unlovable.

Because love was never about being perfect.

It was about showing up.

And you didn’t.

You left.

So no—

you don’t get to call it love.

Don’t call it kindness.

Don’t call it protection.

Not when all it did

was hurt.