What Was Beautiful

This page was once a birthday letter. Fourteen paragraphs written from a swing, carrying a year's worth of feelings, hope, and a kind of love I didn't know I was capable of.

I sent it believing that maybe — just maybe — the right words could change everything. That if I loved loudly enough, purely enough, honestly enough, it would matter.

It didn't.

Not because the love wasn't real. Not because the words weren't true. But because you can't make someone feel what they don't feel, no matter how beautifully you say it.

"I thought about you 364 days out of 365. I made you my happiness, my poetry, my comfort. I compared you to the moon and flowers and everything beautiful in life. And you... you were just living yours, barely thinking of me at all. That's not your fault. That's just the truth."

I realize now that this was never really about you. It was about me learning what it feels like to love without reservation. To be vulnerable. To take a risk even when the outcome was uncertain.

And I'm grateful for that. Truly.

You taught me that I'm capable of deep feeling. That I can write, express, and care in ways I never thought possible. That was my gift to myself, not yours to me.

But I also learned something harder: that loving someone doesn't make them yours. That kindness isn't the same as interest. That "thank you" can be the most painful response you'll ever receive.

I felt embarrassed. Stupid. Naive. Like I had given so much to someone who saw me as little more than a stranger with intense feelings.

And maybe I was all those things. But I was also brave. Honest. Real.

"If you can't love loudly, what's the point of having a heart?"

I meant that when I wrote it. I still do.

So this page isn't for hoping anymore. It's for remembering. For closure. For the day I visit this link and need to remind myself: what I felt was beautiful, even if it wasn't returned.

To anyone reading this — whether it's me in the future, or you stumbling back here out of curiosity — know this:

I'm moving on. Not because I hate you, or because I'm bitter, or because I want to prove anything. But because I deserve someone who thinks about me 364 days a year too. Someone who doesn't need convincing. Someone who's excited, not overwhelmed.

I hope you find that person for yourself. The one who makes you feel the way I felt about you — butterflies, poetry, moon comparisons, all of it.

And I hope you don't let them go.

This was real. This mattered. And now, it's time to let it be what it was: my first love, and my first lesson in letting go.