Heartbreak diaries #2: You call me crazy, I call you a coward

My love was wild. Yours was fragile.

26th April 2025 19:45 — Primrose Hill, London, England

I tried so hard to fit into your world
that you stopped wanting to visit mine.
You never made space for “ours.”
And still had the audacity to say
our life was boring
while I spent all my sparkle
trying to please you.

I don’t know where I lost myself along the way —
in your gentle requests,
in your calm gaze,
in that good guy look
that made me think there was no danger.
But part of me was already
agonising on the living room floor,
alone, abandoned,
treated like a badly told joke.

I spoke, and you looked away.
When did I become a burden?
When did you stop believing in me?
In my work, my ideas,
in us?

You used to be fascinated.
Inspired.
Proud.

As long as I was shining, everything was fine.
But the moment I tripped —
you turned your back
without even looking behind.
Just told me you didn’t want it anymore.

And just two months adopting cats with me,
while we planned
a family,
a future,
a life,
you walked in at 10pm on a Sunday night,
after a weekend out with friends,
sat across from me like a stranger,
and said, “I think we need to break up.”
No warning.
No softness.
No chance to prepare my heart.
You stared into my face without blinking,
without shaking,
without feelings,
without remorse.
As if I were a meeting to cancel.
A box to untick.
A chapter you decided to stop reading.

You said you were feeling disconnected from me these past few weeks.
And I sat there thinking,
how could you not?

I had just been diagnosed with depression.
Burnout.
My first depressive episode in life.
I’d gone a full month without my anxiety meds,
then started new ones,
a week before,
that were still adjusting to my system.

I was lost in my own body.
I was disconnected from myself —
how could I be connected to anyone else?

But you,
you said it had nothing to do with that.
You just felt the disconnection.
And still you expected me
to carry the weight of your silence
while I was drowning in mine.

It was the first time I truly fell apart while being with you.
And instead of holding me,
you vanished.
You weren’t there for me —
not emotionally,
not financially,
not physically.

You ran away every weekend
to hide in your friends' comfort
while I broke apart in the silence of our shared home.

And I had to leave.
Abandon the home I decorated for us.
Leave the cats.
Walk away without direction.
No house.
No nothing.

Not even the coffee machine.
Not even the desk you gave me,
saying it was mine —
until you decided I wasn’t yours anymore.
You said those gifts were only mine
as long as I belonged to you.
And just like that,
you retracted every single promise,
as if I was a loan you regretted.
As if love came with a return policy.

You were cruel.
You threw me out
like the vintage table I picked with so much love —
without even asking
if I still wanted to stay.

But it wasn’t just about the table.
It was about kicking me out of my own home
when I needed comfort the most.
Now, dancing with the discomfort of not knowing what’s next,
without even the key to where I might land,
I remember:
I may be alone,
but I never stay in the same place.

And that comforts me.

You can call me crazy,
and I might even smile.
But coward?
No.
That word I’ll leave for you.

Because to me, it’s unthinkable
to abandon someone you once said you wanted to marry.
I believed every word you said:
forever,
the flowers you brought when the old ones started to die,
the names of our future kids:
Lily, Noah, and Jasmine.
But now they’ll never be born.
Only the painting of Lily,
which I asked to keep,
will stay with me.

I still remember that day at the beach in Salvador,
when you said you wanted to marry me in Brazil —
the sand in our toes,
my hands touching your face,
and I wondered what did I do
to get so lucky.

You looked me in the eyes
and said all the right words
in the right way.
But your love was a lie.

I don’t think you meant to hurt me —
you lied to yourself
before you lied to me.

You fell for the bold woman,
living her glory days.
But you didn’t want to go through the hard ones.
Did you think they’d never come?

After two minutes,
you were already saying you liked me.
You wanted to impress me,
promised me the world.
But in the end,
you fell for who you imagined me to be.

And me?
I used to fear ending up alone.
Now I fear getting stuck in one place.
I fear being a coward.
Piling up “what ifs,”
hypothetical futures,
but never leaping.

So I wish for you:
may you learn to be audacious, like me.
Because only then
will you find yourself somewhere new.

You didn’t cheat on me.
But you betrayed our dreams,
our plans,
our pencil-drawn future.

You turned your back —
without a tear,
without a tremble.

You threw me out with the same coldness
you used to toss out the vintage table.
And I, who gave up my dreams,
my certainties,
my language,
my wardrobe,
even the width of my jeans
to fit into your love
was rejected
with the same indifference of tossing out last season’s fashion.

You said:
“Why don’t you just get a job?”
as if my rhythm was too inconsistent
for your German clock.

I laughed,
you disapproved.

And even so,
I tried.
I bent.
I reshaped.
I surrendered.

And even so,
all you wanted was the end.

And the worst part,
what hurts me the most,
is that I served myself on a silver platter,
with flowers and flourishes,
tailored to your taste,
seasoned with your bland salt —
exactly how you asked —
and you still turned me down.

But the truth is:
it could never have been different.
You are a coward.
I am audacious.
You are prose.
I am poetry.
You wake with the sun.
I rise with the moon.

I burned for you,
You ran from the fire.
I danced through hell,
you watched from the door.
My love was wild,
yours was weak.

I wish I didn’t taste this bitterness,
but you left this sourness in my mouth.
And spitting these words here
is the most beautiful way I found to cleanse myself.

If they’re going to judge me —
let them.
If they’re going to point fingers —
so be it.

Life is too damn short
to swallow poison with a smile.