It was always hardest in the quiet moments. The spaces between breaths, when the day was still and her thoughts weren't drowned out by noise. It was in these fragile silences that the guilt crept in, heavy and unrelenting, like a low tide revealing jagged rocks beneath the surface. She sat by the window, the pale light of morning filtering through sheer curtains, illuminating the letter in her trembling hands.
It's easy to get lost in thought. To overthink and over-analyze every single situation. Every moment, and re-run it in your mind until you disect everything you could have possibly done differently.
Her words stared back at her, raw and unapologetic. She hadn't expected to feel this exposed, even though she was the author of her own vulnerability. It was a certain kind of nakedness that enveloped her. The kind you feel as you stand bare in front of a lover - blushing red in both your cheeks, and bosom. The act of putting her feelings to paper had been liberating in the moment - a desperate attempt to untangle the knots inside her chest. Yet now, reading them again, she felt stripped bare, every word a confession too heavy to carry, a cross she wasn't sure she was prepared to lift.
What if it was her fault? The thought hit her like a whisper of doubt that refused to quiet. Maybe she'd asked for too much, expected a version of love he couldn't give. Maybe she'd been selfish, projecting her idea of what love should be onto someone who had never promised to meet her there. Yet she couldn't help but question why he'd go to such great lengths to be with her. Had she imagined it all? Had she romanticized a friendly embrace? No... it couldn't be.... Right?
Maybe it was never romantic. Maybe it was about sex. About the natural human desire, the craving, the heat that comes from being aroused. Maybe it was simply a physical matter - and her - the fool assuming that sex meant love.
But wasn't love supposed to be mutual? A shared language of unspoken gestures, sacrifices, and dreams? She thought of his laughter, the way it used to fill the room and brighten the dullest days. How had it become something that mocked her? When had his smile started feeling like a mask hiding indifference? She clutched the letter tighter, her knuckles white with the effort to keep from crumpling it entirely.
The vulnerability of loving someone who didn't love you back was an open wound that refused to heal. She had given everything - more than she realized she had to offer - and in return, she was left with this aching void where love should have been. It wasn't anger that consumed her, nor resentment. It was a guilt so deep it felt like sinking into quicksand. Guilt for not being enough. Guilt for holding on longer than she should. Guilt for loving so recklessly, with a heart that didn't know how to protect itself.
Her phone buzzed on the table, breaking the stillness. For a moment, she didn't move. She didn't want to see his name flash on the screen. She didn't want to confront the familiar surge of hope it always brought - the one that would inevitably crash into despair. But when she finally looked, it wasn't him. It was a text from a friend, simple and concerned: *Are you okay?*
She hesitated before responding. She wasn't okay, but she wasn't ready to admit it either. Instead, she stared at the screen, feeling the weight of her isolation. Was this what guilt did? Silenced you? Made you question every choice, every word, every emotion until you were too afraid to reach out for help?
Her gaze drifted back to the letter. If only she could explain herself - to him, to her friends, to anyone who would listen. Not to justify her feelings but to be seen, truly seen. Vulnerability wasn't just about sharing your pain; it was about hoping someone would hold it with you, even for a moment.
Taking a deep breath, she picked up a pen and flipped the page. Writing had been her solace before, and maybe it could be again. This time, though, she didn't write to him. She wrote to herself.
---
*Dear me,*
*You are not unworthy of love. This is not all there is. You are allowed to feel what you feel, even if it's messy and imperfect. You gave your heart because you believed in love, and that is something to be proud of, not ashamed of. But it's time to let go of the guilt. Time to forgive yourself for wanting more. Time to stop waiting for someone to love you the way you deserve and start loving yourself that way first.*
The words came slowly at first, but then they flowed, a balm for the rawness inside her. And as she wrote, the guilt began to loosen its grip. She didn't have all the answers, but for the first time, she felt like she didn't have to. Vulnerability wasn't just a crack in her armor; it was a doorway to something greater.
She wasn't there yet, but maybe - just maybe - she was on her way.
It's easy to get lost in thought. To overthink and over-analyze every single situation. Every moment, and re-run it in your mind until you disect everything you could have possibly done differently.
Her words stared back at her, raw and unapologetic. She hadn't expected to feel this exposed, even though she was the author of her own vulnerability. It was a certain kind of nakedness that enveloped her. The kind you feel as you stand bare in front of a lover - blushing red in both your cheeks, and bosom. The act of putting her feelings to paper had been liberating in the moment - a desperate attempt to untangle the knots inside her chest. Yet now, reading them again, she felt stripped bare, every word a confession too heavy to carry, a cross she wasn't sure she was prepared to lift.
What if it was her fault? The thought hit her like a whisper of doubt that refused to quiet. Maybe she'd asked for too much, expected a version of love he couldn't give. Maybe she'd been selfish, projecting her idea of what love should be onto someone who had never promised to meet her there. Yet she couldn't help but question why he'd go to such great lengths to be with her. Had she imagined it all? Had she romanticized a friendly embrace? No... it couldn't be.... Right?
Maybe it was never romantic. Maybe it was about sex. About the natural human desire, the craving, the heat that comes from being aroused. Maybe it was simply a physical matter - and her - the fool assuming that sex meant love.
But wasn't love supposed to be mutual? A shared language of unspoken gestures, sacrifices, and dreams? She thought of his laughter, the way it used to fill the room and brighten the dullest days. How had it become something that mocked her? When had his smile started feeling like a mask hiding indifference? She clutched the letter tighter, her knuckles white with the effort to keep from crumpling it entirely.
The vulnerability of loving someone who didn't love you back was an open wound that refused to heal. She had given everything - more than she realized she had to offer - and in return, she was left with this aching void where love should have been. It wasn't anger that consumed her, nor resentment. It was a guilt so deep it felt like sinking into quicksand. Guilt for not being enough. Guilt for holding on longer than she should. Guilt for loving so recklessly, with a heart that didn't know how to protect itself.
Her phone buzzed on the table, breaking the stillness. For a moment, she didn't move. She didn't want to see his name flash on the screen. She didn't want to confront the familiar surge of hope it always brought - the one that would inevitably crash into despair. But when she finally looked, it wasn't him. It was a text from a friend, simple and concerned: *Are you okay?*
She hesitated before responding. She wasn't okay, but she wasn't ready to admit it either. Instead, she stared at the screen, feeling the weight of her isolation. Was this what guilt did? Silenced you? Made you question every choice, every word, every emotion until you were too afraid to reach out for help?
Her gaze drifted back to the letter. If only she could explain herself - to him, to her friends, to anyone who would listen. Not to justify her feelings but to be seen, truly seen. Vulnerability wasn't just about sharing your pain; it was about hoping someone would hold it with you, even for a moment.
Taking a deep breath, she picked up a pen and flipped the page. Writing had been her solace before, and maybe it could be again. This time, though, she didn't write to him. She wrote to herself.
---
*Dear me,*
*You are not unworthy of love. This is not all there is. You are allowed to feel what you feel, even if it's messy and imperfect. You gave your heart because you believed in love, and that is something to be proud of, not ashamed of. But it's time to let go of the guilt. Time to forgive yourself for wanting more. Time to stop waiting for someone to love you the way you deserve and start loving yourself that way first.*
The words came slowly at first, but then they flowed, a balm for the rawness inside her. And as she wrote, the guilt began to loosen its grip. She didn't have all the answers, but for the first time, she felt like she didn't have to. Vulnerability wasn't just a crack in her armor; it was a doorway to something greater.
She wasn't there yet, but maybe - just maybe - she was on her way.
Support Ivy Molina Herrera
