She Didn't Love me, But She Loved The Free Therapy

She didn’t love me, but she loved the way I loved her.

The way I showed up, heart in hand, offering her the world,

While she barely offered me a second thought.

She liked the attention, the devotion, the safety of knowing I’d always be there,

But never the responsibility of loving me back.

And me? I mistook her inconsistency for mystery,

Her silence for depth, her distance for something I just needed to fix.

She warned me—

She wasn’t looking for love.

But my hopeful little heart translated that to,

"Not yet."

She left, of course. They always do.

And I told myself, “This is the last time.”

But then she came back—

Not because she had changed,

Not because she had an epiphany,

But because she missed the way I made her feel.

And like a fool on an endless carousel ride,

I let her.

Again. And again.

Until I was nothing more than an echo of the love I used to give so freely.

Every return felt like a miracle,

Every exit felt like a lesson I refused to learn.

I wasn’t her home, just a place to stop when the world felt too quiet.

Then I learnt,

Love shouldn’t feel like waiting in a doctor’s office,

Hoping you’ll be called in next,

Only to realize you were never on the list to begin with.

So, I did what I should have done long ago—

I left the door open, but I walked away first.

And for once,

I chose myself.