I didn’t come perfect.
But I came honest.
Hands open.
Heart scarred,
still beating in your direction.

I remembered the small things.
The way your voice dipped
when you were tired.
How you liked your coffee.
How you didn’t like to ask for help
but needed it anyway.
I gave it—
without making you say the words.

I held you
on the nights you didn’t know
how to be held.
Stood beside you
when you didn’t even look back
to see if I was still there.

I was good to you.
Not flashy, not loud.
But consistent.
Available.
Real.

And somehow,
it wasn’t enough.

You wanted something
I couldn’t be,
or maybe
you just couldn’t see
what you had.
Not until you lost it.
Not until I stopped showing up
for someone
who didn’t know
how to show up for me.

Now you say
you miss me.
But missing isn’t loving.
Missing is just
realizing too late
that I was the one
who stayed
when you were hard to love.

I was good to you.
And that
should have been
enough.