At first,
she loved me like she was begging the world
to do the same for her—
loud when it mattered,
quiet when it didn’t,
eyes wide, heart open,
always fucking there.

I thought it was just who she was—
the soft kind,
the type who shows up
even when you don’t deserve it.

So, I didn’t show up.
Not really.
Half-assed replies,
smirks instead of answers,
fed her crumbs
and acted like it was a feast.

She kept giving.
I kept taking.
And I called it balanced
because she didn’t leave.

But she was watching.
Learning.
Not the way I talked,
the way I didn’t.

And then—
something shifted.
Colder eyes.
Replies that felt like smoke.
No chase.
No reach.
Just space.
And silence where her softness used to be.

Now she moves like me.
Detached.
Strategic.
Unbothered.

And I hate it.
Not because she changed—
because I made her.

She stopped being who she was
and started being
what I showed her love looks like.

And now I finally get it.
She didn’t go cold.
She went even.