stalks
moved to a new country carrying two suitcases and a heart full of hope.
I told myself this was my fresh start - new streets, new people, new life. What I didn't know was that the hardest part wouldn't be the language, the loneliness, or learning how to survive on my own.
It would be him.
In a place where everything felt unfamiliar, he became the only familiar thing. The one person I thought I could rely on. The one place I ran to when the world felt too heavy. And somehow, every month - once, sometimes twice - he found a new way to break me.
Maybe it was karma.
Maybe it wasn't.
Maybe he learned his lesson.
Maybe he never will.
Maybe this is over.
Or maybe it's not.
All I know is that love never felt like this before.
My love felt worse than a trash can lying in the snow - ignored, cold, replaceable. And the worst part? That feeling didn't come just once. It came again and again, until the pain felt familiar, until my chest grew heavy more often than it felt light.
Some nights, I wondered if it was my fault.
If I loved too deeply.
Trusted too easily.
Stayed too long.
Other nights, I wondered if it was just him - the boy who didn't know how to love without hurting. But then I asked myself something that scared me even more:
Was I the only one he broke like this? Or was I just another name in a repeating pattern?
I'm still standing. Still breathing. Still finding the courage to tell my story - not because I'm healed, but because I want to know the truth.
To see if this pain belongs only to me...
Or if others have felt it too.