The Hurt I Didn’t Deserve

I don’t know what I did.
Or didn’t do.
Only that when I looked over—
you weren’t there.

Not in the shadows.
Not in the light.
Not even in the grey space
where maybe you just forgot to care out loud.

I wanted you beside me.
In the mess.
In the miracle.
In the quiet after
where I whispered,
Did you see that? I did it.
But there was no answer.

Not even silence,
which would have felt
like something.

And maybe it’s jealousy.
Or timing.
Or something you’ll never explain
because that would mean admitting
you let go first.

But still—
it felt like a choice.

You watched me
hurt,
heal,
hustle,
and instead of reaching for me,
you folded your arms
and looked away.

I don’t want to be angry.
But I am.
I don’t want to beg for your pride.
But I did.
In every soft attempt
to bring you close again.

And now I sit with the knowing:
it was never about me.
It was about whatever in you
couldn’t hold my joy
without cracking.

But that doesn’t dull the ache.
Doesn’t fill the empty seat.

I wanted you along for this ride.
I really did.

I saved you a place
you never asked for.
And still—I waited.