Selfish
She says she loves you, but it's the way you make her laugh, or the way you pick up the pieces when the world drops her flat. She loves the comfort, the steady hand, the way you hold the weight she never planned to carry.
But that’s not love, is it?
She doesn’t know your storms, your quiet nights when you can’t breathe right, or how your heart beats a little slower each time you bend to pick her up. You’re a mirror she polishes just enough to see her own reflection in, always clean, always clear.
You think it’s love, but it’s a transaction, a take without the give, a slow siphon where you wake up one morning emptier than the day before, and you wonder when that happened— if it was slow or sudden. But it doesn’t matter; she’s already gone.
She’s found a new hand, a new reflection, and you’re left with the quiet truth: She never loved you, just the way you made her feel.