Unrequited Love

The Reconnection and the Ruin

Months passed after we parted ways, and life moved on as it always does. But there was always a piece of me that was left unfinished, a chapter in my life that hadn't quite closed. Then, out of the blue, we reconnected. It was as if no time had passed at all, like we had just picked up where we left off. We fell back into our old rhythm—laughing at the same jokes, sharing our deepest thoughts, and being there for each other, like the best friends we once were.

But things were different this time. Beneath the surface of our renewed friendship, something darker brewed within me. Maybe it was the remnants of my unrequited love, a fragile ego that couldn't accept the fact that I couldn't have her the way I wanted. Or maybe it was the grief of having her close yet out of reach. Whatever it was, it turned me into someone I didn't recognize.

I became rude, snapping at her for the smallest things, letting my frustration spill out in ways I couldn't control. I knew I was being toxic, that I was hurting her, but I couldn't seem to stop. She, on the other hand, held on—more patient than I deserved. She valued our friendship, maybe even more than I did at that moment. She believed in it, in us, even when I was doing everything to push her away.

Time and again, I would realize my mistakes, apologize, and promise to be better. But the cycle repeated itself, my apologies losing their meaning as I fell back into the same patterns. It was as if I was testing her limits, seeing how far I could push her before she would finally break.

And then one day, we had a fight—one of those that leaves scars you can't see. I said things I didn't mean, words that cut deeper than I intended. The next day, she was gone. Just like that, she disappeared from my life, blocking me from every possible way of communication. I had finally driven her away.

She had tried, so hard, to keep us together. She had given her all—her love, her trust, her patience—but in the end, I wasn't worth it. I was the thorn in her life, always pricking her with my words and actions, and she had bled enough. She had finally run out of blood to give.

I lost her once again. But this time, it wasn't just the loss of a friend. It was the loss of something pure, something that could have been beautiful if I hadn't ruined it with my own hands. She was an amazing friend, someone who loved me in ways I couldn't see at the time. But I was too blinded by my own pain to appreciate it, and now she was gone, perhaps for good.

Previously, I learned that loving someone sometimes means letting go. But what I didn't realize was that holding on to someone when you should let go can hurt them more than you ever intended. And now, as I sit here, staring at the empty spaces she once filled in my life, I can't help but wonder if things could have been different if only I had been a better friend—a better person.

But it's too late for that now. She's gone, and I'm left with nothing but the memories of what we once had and the regret of what could have been.