I loved him for ten years. A love that danced in the sunlight and whispered beneath the moon, a love that felt like poetry written in the ink of our intertwined laughter. We were the storybook couple—laced fingers, stolen kisses in crowded rooms, and dreams built like castles in the clouds.

But dreams are tricky things. They shimmer in the distance, but they are not always meant to be touched.

For a decade, I believed in us. I believed in the way he tucked strands of my hair behind my ear, the way he knew my coffee order without asking, and the way he could quiet my worries with a single touch. We had seasons together—spring picnics that stretched into summer, autumn evenings wrapped in shared blankets, and winters spent warming each other’s hands.

I thought I was his always. But I was only his for now.

“Marriage isn’t everything,” he’d say, his voice laced with the softness of a man who loved in a way that wasn’t forever. “We have everything we need.” And I would smile, pretending the ache in my chest was just a passing storm.

But storms don’t pass when they’re held inside you. They brew. They crash. And one day, I realized I couldn’t wait for a future that had no door for me to walk through.

So I left.

The door didn’t slam. It whispered shut, like the final page of a book unfinished. I walked away with ten years trailing behind me, their weight heavy and tender in my heart. I thought love was enough to build a life, but love without promise is just a dream that lingers too long.

Sometimes, the greatest heartbreak isn’t losing love—it’s realizing love was never enough to make him choose you.

And yet, I carry no regret, only a quiet hope that somewhere beyond this decade of almosts, I will find the forever I deserve.