I was there for her, entirely— every breath, every night, like a lighthouse that never goes dark. She only ever came halfway. Half of her in my arms, half of her somewhere else— a shadow I could never touch. Still, I held on to that half like it was the whole world. Because when you love someone, you convince yourself that even scraps are sacred. I stood beside her when the world emptied its pockets and left her with nothing. I carried her burdens without asking her to carry mine. I told myself love wasn’t a transaction— that giving was enough. That one day, she might see me. But when my own sky split open, when the walls shook and my voice was nothing but breaking glass, she turned toward that missing half of herself— the part that was never mine to begin with. I watched her walk away from me, not out of malice, but out of absence. She was never all here. Not once. And I realized I had been loving a version of her that existed only in my mind. In truth, I was alone the whole time. But still— when they ask me why, when they can’t understand why I stayed through the imbalance, why I drowned for someone who never learned to swim for me— I tell them the truth. I loved her. And I never asked for the same. Because some loves aren’t built on fairness. Some loves are just altars you keep lighting, even when no one is coming to pray.