Home had your name

I still don't understand the way your love works, and it's probably not love at all. 

I can't help but feel a void in my soul and an immense heaviness whenever this is discussed or even mentioned. I can't help but feel like I should run away. 

And I wish my heart wasn't so broken, and I wish it hadn't been you, because we could have laughed at everyone, we could have run away from everything, we could have run without looking back. Because in the end it was never just the two of us; because in the end home bore your name; because in the end there's nothing like feeling loved. 

My safe place ceased to be mine, our vacations turned into working hours, and our love turned into resentment. 

Don't get me wrong: I still love you, I still think about you, I still miss you, and I always need you. But with adulthood came problems, people, pain, and that strange expectation that if I love you so much, you'd give me the same in return. 

On the contrary, waiting for your love did not bring me happiness: it led me to catastrophize myself in a way that I did not recognize. 

Because I would never abandon you to side with those you consider your enemies. Because I would never stop loving you to side with someone who—even if they're right—is not you. 

But you know what? It terrifies me to think of your anger, and that perhaps I am secretly supporting the ideas of someone we are supposed to repudiate from the bottom of our hearts. 

And I couldn't tell you if it was really your love that saved me so many times, or if it was me imagining that without me you wouldn't have a shoulder to lean on. 

But, honey, I really hope it's worth the wait for the fireworks to last forever, because when you discover that, like everything else, they also fade away, it will be too late.