Some people think love is something you earn.
That you must behave the right way.
Say the right things.
Be quiet when you're hurting.
Smile even when you're crumbling inside.
But I've learned something painful and true:
If you have to earn love… it was never really love.
Jayden used to say things like:
"If you were more relaxed, we'd fight less."
"If you didn't need so much, I'd call you more."
"If you just trusted me, I'd open up."
It always started with "If you…"
As if I was the problem.
As if I needed to change just to be enough.
And for a long time, I believed him.
I thought maybe I was too sensitive.
Too emotional.
Too intense.
So I worked harder.
Smiled wider.
Texted first.
Stayed silent during moments I should've spoken up.
I thought that if I just loved him right, he'd finally see me.
But love doesn't work like that.
Love isn't a prize for performing well.
It's a gift freely given.
Or it's not love at all.
That morning, I opened a message from the wellness studio I was designing for.
The client wrote:
"Ava, thank you for bringing our vision to life. You're truly gifted."
I stared at those words.
Truly gifted.
Not "gifted if…"
Not "you're good, but…"
Just pure, honest appreciation.
That's what value sounds like.
That's what respect feels like.
No games. No guessing. Just truth.
Sasha called later that day.
"I swear your skin is clearer since you stopped crying over that man," she joked.
"Healing is the best skincare," I laughed.
"You know what I realized?" she said. "You used to explain Jayden to me like he was a puzzle you were trying to solve."
"Because I was," I said quietly.
"Yeah, but love isn't supposed to be a mystery. It's supposed to make sense."
She was right.
Jayden was always confusing.
Hot one day. Cold the next.
Holding my hand in private. Ignoring me in public.
Loving me with conditions I didn't know I was failing.
That wasn't love.
That was survival.
I spent the afternoon reorganizing my room.
I pulled out a small box where I kept old cards, movie stubs, photos from happier days.
There was one from our first trip together.
We had gone to a beach house with friends. The picture showed us smiling under the sun, arms wrapped around each other.
But I remembered what happened that night.
He had ignored me at the bonfire.
Flirted with someone else.
Left me walking back to the room alone.
I stared at the photo.
It lied.
I finally threw it out.
Not because I was angry but because I'm tired of holding onto moments that only looked beautiful from a distance.
I want love that feels real close-up.
Later that evening, I wrote in my journal:
I don't have to be easy to love to be worthy of love.
I'm allowed to be deep, loud, soft, emotional, and still be chosen.
Real love will meet me there not ask me to shrink.
I scrolled through my phone and noticed something.
I wasn't checking for Jayden anymore.
Not even in my blocked messages.
Not in my memories.
He was fading. Slowly, but truly.
And I wasn't chasing the silence anymore.
I was learning to enjoy it.
I went to a late yoga class for the first time in months. The instructor smiled warmly.
"Welcome back," she said. "Ready to reconnect with yourself?"
That word: Reconnect.
Yes. That's exactly what I was doing.
Not with Jayden.
Not with the past.
With me.
After class, I walked home under the stars.
No music. No distractions. Just me and the sound of my own steps.
And I realized something so clear, it stopped me in my tracks:
The love I was begging for… I've started giving to myself.
Not in big, dramatic ways.
But in small choices.
In saying no to half-effort.
In saying yes to rest.
In deleting the old messages, removing the photos, and letting go of hope that only hurt me.
Jayden had once said:
"You're just too much sometimes."
But now I know:
I was never too much.
He just wasn't enough.
I stood at the edge of the sidewalk, looked up at the moon, and made a promise to myself.
"From now on, I'll never fight for love that doesn't fight for me."
He wanted me to earn his love.
But I'm not a job interview.
I'm a woman who finally knows her worth.
And I don't compete for a seat at a table I built.