I’m not usually someone who offers advice but I do have thoughts. This is a rendition of a talk I might give if I were asked, in a sort of poetic way…
You Didn't Ask...
You remind me of someone.
Not me exactly, but
a version of me
with better instincts.
You’re standing
in that in-between place—
where your chest gets heavy
but your voice stays light
because you haven’t decided
what version of yourself
you’re trying to preserve.
Talking about him
like a song
you used to love
before you learned the lyrics.
It’s easy to stay
with someone who isn’t awful.
Harder to leave
when they’ve only ever
almost made you feel whole.
But here’s the thing about "almost"...
it’s the softest kind of anchor.
Keeps you close to shore, but
don’t forget you were built for oceans.
I know— everyone loves
a love story that lasts.
But no one talks
about the ones that save you
by ending.
You don’t need to become
the caretaker of someone else’s potential.
Your light is not a learning center.
You’re allowed to be the main plot.
Not the subplot.
Not the lesson someone learns
too late.
This isn’t about blame.
Or bitterness.
Or burning bridges like
they were built to test your lungs.
It’s about asking the kind of questions
you’re scared of answering honestly.
Like—
If you met him today,
not with your history,
not with your hope,
but with your heart as it is now—
would you choose him?
And if not... Would staying
be anything other than
a slow way of saying goodbye?
You’re not lost.
You’re just gathering the courage
to admit you’ve outgrown the map.
It’s not failure.
It’s evolution.
And yes, it will hurt.
It might feel like tearing a chapter
from a book you’ve memorized.
But it is better than reading the same paragraph
on a loop, wondering why the story
never moves forward.
You deserve the kind of love
that doesn’t ask you
to shrink…
just to fit.
And maybe that means walking.
Maybe that means waiting.
But whatever you do,
promise me this:
Choose the kind of life
you’d be proud
to write poems about.
Even if it means
writing the next one
alone.