I want to believe him.
I want to believe that when he says he’s proud of me, he means it.
That it’s not just kindness. Not pity. Not a way to keep me close.
But all I hear is an old echo:
You are only safe when you’re useful.
You are only loved when you’re needed.
And when the need is gone, so are they.
He says I’m wanted. Not just needed.
He says I’m loved. Just as I am.
And part of me aches to believe him.
But the other part—the louder one—wants to run.
Because believing means risking.
And risking means hoping.
And hope has teeth.
I tell myself it’s just words.
But even saying that feels like armor I don’t want to wear anymore.
I want to take it off.
I want to trust that not everyone will go.
That I don’t have to fix someone to be worth staying for.
So I sit here, holding this impossibly heavy thing:
The wanting to believe.
The fear of believing.
And the quiet truth under all of it—
That I’m still here. Still trying.
And maybe, that’s enough for now.