i know you’re probably mad at me. i know i’ve hurt you in ways i never meant to, always stepping close and then pulling away. i’m sorry. i’m sorry that i lied when i said i needed time to focus on myself and other things. the truth is quieter and more shameful: i am insecure. i do see a future with you, but my insecurities eat through every hopeful thought before it can breathe.

being sick, physically and mentally, has wrapped me in a kind of guilt i don’t know how to escape. the way i embarrassed myself in front of you made me feel unworthy of your love and your time. i keep thinking that loving me means carrying a burden you never asked for. it makes me sad because no one can convince me otherwise. this is how my heart has been trained to think.

and then there are my circumstances. the parts of me shaped by the absence of family, the trauma, the silence of childhood. i won’t be able to give you the family you deserve. that thought breaks me in places i can’t describe. if you choose me, you will never know my roots in the way people usually do. i cannot introduce you to a mother or a father or siblings. you have these things, and it embarrasses me to imagine standing beside you with empty hands.

on top of that, i’m a single parent. i know it’s not something people proudly bring home. i struggle, physically and mentally, and it hurts me that you’re always left wondering about me. will i come back. will i be okay. will i disappear again when the world becomes too loud.

the truth is, i don’t ever want to let you go. you made me feel things i didn’t know were possible. like being fed, being taken to beautiful places, being cared for without hesitation. i still replay that moment at cafe library. you looked around and said, “this place is nice, let’s build a home like this.” it was small, almost casual, but it opened a door in my heart that i’ve kept locked for years. for a second, i believed in a future for us.

and then my mind betrayed me. i hate that i’m logical and afraid at the same time. i hate that insecurity sits beside intelligence and makes both useless. bipolar is a storm of emotions, and i keep refusing to feel anything fully because i’m terrified there’s always a more rational explanation hidden beneath tenderness.

sometimes i wish i wasn’t born into the life i had. i wish i met you before all the wounds took shape so i could love you better. i wish i could cook for you, prepare meals for you, give you the softest version of myself. but all of that feels like a dream i wasn’t given in this lifetime.

maybe in the next life, i’ll be born into a home where a mother loves me, and i’ll grow up unbroken, and i’ll meet you in a world that’s kinder to me. maybe in that life i will fight for you without hesitation. because in every version of existence i can imagine, i know i would still look for you. i would still love you.

i can only love you from a distance now. and i know it’s hard to believe, but i love you so much.