You were always so good at leaving.
Not necessarily rooms.
Not at first.
Conversations.
Questions.
Anything that required you
to sit with the possibility
that you might have hurt somebody.
You could turn a simple request
into an accusation,
an explanation into an argument,
and somehow,
by the end of it,
I’d be apologizing
for the way you made me feel.
That’s a fucking talent.
To make somebody feel guilty
for noticing they’re being neglected.
You called it needing space.
Which is interesting,
because I gave you two years of mine.
Space to figure things out.
Space to make mistakes.
Space to take responsibility
at whatever pace
was most convenient for you.
And when I finally asked
for a little consideration,
you acted like I was trying
to take away your freedom.
I wasn’t asking you
to rearrange your entire life.
I was asking you
to finish a fucking conversation.
Or at least tell me
when you couldn’t.
But apparently
basic communication
is an unreasonable expectation
when you’re committed
to avoiding accountability.
And God,
you loved that word.
Overwhelmed.
You were overwhelmed
when something needed fixing.
Overwhelmed
when I needed reassurance.
Overwhelmed
when your decisions
finally had consequences.
But somehow
you were never too overwhelmed
to make another decision
I’d eventually have to deal with.
And I know.
Avoidance is a response.
Sometimes it’s learned.
Sometimes it’s fear.
Sometimes people shut down
because they genuinely
don’t know what else to do.
I understand that.
I spent two years
trying to understand that.
But at some point,
your explanation
stops being an excuse.
Because you knew.
You knew what disappearing did to me.
You knew how much it hurt.
You knew I wasn’t asking for perfection.
And you kept doing it.
Then acted surprised
when I stopped being patient.
You want to know
what the worst part was?
It wasn’t the silence.
It was watching you
find the courage
to defend yourself
every single time
I asked you to consider me.
You couldn’t find ten seconds
to say you’d be busy.
But you could find an hour
to explain why
I shouldn’t have been upset.
And eventually,
I started wondering
whether you were actually
afraid of confrontation,
or just afraid
of a conversation
you couldn’t win.
Because there’s a difference
between being unable
to face your problems
and being perfectly comfortable
letting somebody else
face them for you.
And when everything
finally fell apart,
you did what you always did.
You left.
Not just the relationship.
The unfinished conversations.
The consequences.
The things you’d promised to handle.
The person who spent two years
trying to make a future
with somebody
who couldn’t face the present.
And I was left
trying to make sense
of a goodbye
you couldn’t even say.
So no.
I don’t think you’re a piece of shit
because you needed space.
I think you treated me like shit
because you made your discomfort
more important
than the damage you were doing.
And every time
I tried to explain that damage,
you made me feel like
I was the one causing it.
That’s not protecting your peace.
That’s making somebody else
pay for it.
And the saddest part?
I would have sat through
every uncomfortable conversation
you were afraid to have.
I would have listened.
I would have worked through it.
I would have met you halfway
a thousand fucking times.
But you can’t meet somebody halfway
when every time you take a step forward,
they take another step back.
So congratulations.
You avoided the argument.
You avoided the apology.
You avoided the responsibility.
You avoided every difficult thing
that might have actually
made us better.
And in the end,
you avoided our relationship
right out of existence.
I hope all that space
was worth it.
Because you finally got
what you kept asking for.
Nobody left
to ask you
to show up.