Amina always thought love came with safety. That it would be a warm place to land, a hand to hold when the world got heavy. But the more she reflected on her past, the more she saw how often she had mistaken love for something else entirely—attention, control, proximity, obligation.
She thought of Daniel, the ex who always said, "I love you," but made her feel small in crowded rooms. He never raised his voice, never laid a hand on her—but his silence after arguments was like a punishment. His compliments always came with conditions.
"You look beautiful today… you should wear makeup more often."
"I'm proud of you… but maybe don't talk so much in meetings, people might think you're trying too hard."
She'd called it love, but it was love with sharp edges.
There was also her old friend Alicia. They had grown up together, shared dreams and secrets. But over the years, Alicia's support turned to competition. Her affection became possessive, conditional. If Amina spent time with anyone else, Alicia would go cold for days, accusing her of betrayal in disguised jokes.
"You're always chasing other people now. Don't forget who was there first."
Amina had clung to these relationships for so long, thinking her loyalty could somehow change the dynamic. That if she just loved harder, if she gave more, the balance would tilt.
But the more she gave, the emptier she felt.
That morning, Amina sat in her favorite café, her journal open, her pen moving across the page as if her heart had found a voice of its own.
"Just because someone says they love you doesn't mean they do it well. Love that makes you shrink is not love. Love that confuses you, belittles you, controls you—that is not the kind of love I deserve."
It was the kind of clarity that comes not from a sudden realization but from years of quiet suffering.
She pulled out her phone and scrolled through old texts, her heart steady now. The patterns were there, in black and white. How often she had apologized first, how often she had been guilted into silence, how often she had ignored the sinking feeling in her gut just to keep the peace.
It was painful to see, but freeing too.
She wasn't crazy. She wasn't too sensitive. She wasn't "too much."
She had been trying to survive in emotional deserts, looking for water where there was none.
That evening, she called her therapist.
"I think I've spent most of my life mistaking familiarity for love," she said. "Just because someone's been in your life forever doesn't mean they're good for you."
Her therapist nodded. "Exactly. And sometimes the most loving thing you can do—for yourself and them—is to let go."
"But what if they say I gave up on them?"
"You didn't give up," she replied. "You chose you."
Amina cried that night. Not from grief, but from the weight of years finally being lifted.
She wrote a letter to Daniel she would never send:
"I loved you in ways I didn't even know how to love myself. But I realize now that love doesn't have to be earned by silence or obedience. It should have made me feel more like myself, not less. I forgive you. But I am moving on."
And one to Alicia:
"You were my sister once. But friendship shouldn't feel like a trap. I hope you find your healing too."
Letting go wasn't easy, but it was necessary. You cannot bloom in poisoned soil.
The next day, she took a long walk through the city park, breathing in deeply, her steps lighter. Her phone buzzed again—this time from Lani, a new friend she had met in her art class.
"Hey, I'm going to that open mic next week. Want to come with?"
Amina smiled.
This friendship felt different—unforced, affirming, light.
"Absolutely. I'd love to."
She paused by a bench and took a seat, pulling out her journal again.
This time, she wrote not a letter, but a list. A guide for the love she now chose to believe in:
Love does not punish you for being human.
Love listens, not just to words, but to silences.
Love supports your dreams, even if they change.
Love does not dim your light—it holds a mirror to show you how brightly you shine.
Love begins with you.
She read it over and over again.
This was the kind of love she would now offer herself.
This was the kind of love she would now accept from others.
And anything less?
Not love.
As she walked home under the evening sky, Amina whispered a new truth into the wind:
"I am not hard to love. I was just offering my heart to those who didn't know what to do with it."
The universe didn't reply with words. But the breeze that swept her hair and the soft golden light of dusk felt like agreement.