He left on a Tuesday.
Not with shouting.
Not with doors slamming or angry final words.
Just a pause. A sigh.
And the kind of silence that says: This time, I'm not coming back.
We were sitting on opposite ends of my couch, facing forward like strangers on a bus. The distance between us more than physical—it was years of mismatched expectations and quiet disappointments. The air was thick with unspoken truths, the kind of tension that settles in the bones like the first signs of rain.
"I don't think you love me," Liam said.
His voice wasn't accusing. It was soft. Too soft. Like he was afraid that saying it louder might shatter something that was already cracked.
I opened my mouth. Then closed it.
Not because I didn't have anything to say,
But because I had too much—and none of it would have made him stay.
"I tried," I said.
It was the only thing that felt true.
And the saddest thing I could offer.
He nodded. Slowly. Like he had already rehearsed this scene alone.
Like he had cried all his tears before walking in.
"You did. I know."
He stood up, his hands slightly trembling as he reached for the navy sweater he kept folded on the armrest—his favorite pang-biyahe sweater, the one he wore on road trips to Tagaytay or on nights we'd sneak balut and taho from the street vendors near my place. I watched as he folded it neatly, respectfully. Not like a man storming out—but like a man finally letting go of what he couldn't fix.
"It shouldn't feel this hard just to be with someone," he said.
And he was right.
But I didn't know how to love without the ache.
Without the performance.
Without the push and pull that made love feel like a prize I had to fight for.
So I just sat there.
I didn't cry. Not right away.
Because some grief doesn't hit you like a wave.
It settles.
It seeps.
Because the truth was—I saw it coming.
I'd been chipping away at us for weeks.
Nitpicking. Pulling back. Creating distance.
Testing the limits of his patience not to punish him…
But because I didn't know how to accept love that didn't demand survival skills.
And that afternoon, he finally stopped holding the rope.
I watched him walk to the door.
Watched his shoulders rise and fall as he took a breath that sounded like goodbye.
And I wanted to stop him.
Not because I suddenly realized I loved him.
But because I hated losing someone who had only ever shown me kindness.
But I didn't move.
Didn't chase.
Didn't beg.
Because I also knew:
I didn't deserve to.
After he left, I sat in the silence.
Not the comforting kind—the kind that hums like a lullaby after a long day.
No, this one was different.
This silence didn't echo. It sank.
I curled up on the couch, the same couch where he once kissed my forehead after a long day, where we once watched old Korean dramas with subtitles and popcorn. I pulled my knees to my chest like I used to do as a child, hiding from the world behind math books and spelling contests.
I scrolled through old texts like a fool.
Read things like:
"I believe in you."
"You're my favorite part of every day."
"Tell me when your heart feels heavy. I'll hold it with mine."
And I hated myself a little.
Not because I stopped loving him.
But because I never really started.
Not in the way he needed.
Not in the way he deserved.
I mistook emotional labor for emotional connection.
I thought letting someone see me cry was intimacy.
I thought letting someone stay was the same as letting someone in.
I used his goodness as a mirror—and flinched at my own reflection.
Liam didn't break my heart.
He reflected it back to me.
Showed me the parts I had buried under ambition, sarcasm, and high-functioning detachment.
He showed me what peace looked like.
And I rejected it.
Because I didn't trust it.
Because I didn't think I was worthy of it.
Because I had learned—too young, too deeply—that love had to feel like effort or else it wasn't real.
I didn't tell anyone we broke up. Not for days.
I kept showing up to work.
Leading my team.
Presenting slide decks on Zoom with perfect lighting and red lipstick like a soldier in heels.
People said I looked "glowing."
They didn't see the woman crying in the bathroom stall at the co-working space, biting her palm to stay quiet.
Didn't hear me whispering to my own reflection,
He deserved better.
And he did.
He deserved a love that didn't shrink when it was safe.
A love that didn't throw grenades just to feel alive.
A love that didn't confuse drama for depth.
But maybe…
So did I.
Maybe I deserved a love that didn't require self-erasure.
A love where I didn't have to dim or doubt or prove myself every day.
A love that felt like both fire and shelter.
But before that—
I needed to learn how to love myself without conditions.
To stop apologizing for being soft and strong at once.
To stop holding every man accountable for the way my father left.
So when the tears finally came that night,
They weren't just for Liam.
They were for the version of me who kept trying to earn love with perfection.
For the girl who thought she had to break things before they broke her.
I whispered, Sorry, to the empty room.
And I meant it.
Not just for losing him—
But for not knowing how to stay when love was calm.