There’s a softness in me he’ll never meet again. Not because it’s gone, not because I’m bitter, but because it was offered once – fully, freely, without hesitation – and he stood in front of it like it was something to be admired, not entered. He had the key. Not because I gave it recklessly, but because I saw something in him that made me believe I could. I don’t hand that part of myself out easily. I don’t unfold like that for just anyone.

It wasn’t loud, the way I loved him.

It was quiet. Safe. The kind of softness that wraps around someone without needing to be seen to be felt. The kind that notices small things. Remembers details. Waits for the pause in his breath before he says the thing he doesn’t know how to say. That kind of care is rare. And still, he stayed outside. Still, he chose comfort over closeness.

And I get it.

Softness can be terrifying when you’ve only known love with conditions. When you’re used to earning affection, not receiving it without needing to ask. But there’s only so long you can leave someone standing with the door open before they stop holding it.

He’ll move on, maybe even tell himself it wasn’t the right time, or that I was asking for too much. But somewhere, some part of him will remember how I looked at him when I still believed he was brave enough to step in. And that version of me – the one who waited without pressure, who offered without keeping score, who loved without armor – he’ll never meet her again. Not because she vanished. But because she learned not to leave the door open for someone who never planned to walk through.