He Didn’t Love Me, But I’m Thankful For That

He knew he couldn’t love me forever.
And I hated him for it.

I saw it in his eyes every time I got upset, and he tried to comfort me, but wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands, or how softly to speak.

He used to watch as I made breakfast in his t-shirt and my underwear, dancing around, singing, but would always say “I don’t like when you make breakfast for me babe.” by the time I brought it to him.

He knew he didn’t appreciate me the way I deserved to be.

And oh god, I tried to pretend he did. I played off his short phone calls, and inconsistent text messages, as him just being busy. I couldn’t really get upset at that, even though I was.

I pretended he loved hearing about my art, and the beautiful words I had seen plastered on walls the walls of cities and inside books.

I pretended that he wanted to give me that promise ring, and that he believed he would marry me one day.

I pretended that I didn’t always have to ask for reassurance. Spitting out “I love you’s” countless times a day, just to hear those words in return.

I pretended that it was okay most of our conversations were about him, that I didn’t mind, I liked hearing about his plans, and his broken home life and stupid sense of humor.

I spent so much time pretending, that the entire relationship kind of just became an illusion to the both of us. We hid behind the cute photographs of us kissing, and holding one another, long Instagram captions, and updated Facebook relationship status.

We pretended we knew what we had gotten into, so quickly, and that this person really was who we wanted to be with the rest of our life.

But eventually, it had to catch up to us, the pretending had to stop somewhere, and he knew it wouldn’t be me to find the reality of the situation.

He knew he couldn’t love me forever.
And I hated him so much for that.
But I don’t anymore.

He knew that if he didn’t walk away, I never would.

He knew I would live in this imaginary relationship filled with fake promises and chaotic love for the rest of my life, because it’s the kind of person I was.

But he knew he didn’t appreciate me the way I deserved to be.

He knew he couldn’t pretend to love hearing about my art forever, or my parent’s separation, or the songs I showed him on the car rides home.

He loved me, but he didn’t appreciate me.

He didn’t appreciate the things I did, and he knew better than I did, that you can’t fake a fascination forever.

So I guess this is me saying I no longer hate him for not loving me.

He’s made me understand that pretending a relationship is equally balanced, and fascinating, and loving, isn’t healthy. He’s made me discover the parts of myself who can recognize genuine interest, and not just fake it for the sake of being in a relationship. He’s made me realize that cute photographs and long captions don’t mean that a relationship is healthy, or that the subjects are nearly as happy as they seem.

He’s made room for a genuine love. An appreciative love. A non-fictional love.

So I’m thankful. Thankful for my broken heart. Thankful for him knowing he couldn’t love me forever.

Because without him, I wouldn’t have loved myself this much.