Loving You the Wrong Way

When love isn't enough, walking away becomes the hardest yet kindest choice

I stood in front of him, the words hanging in the air between us: “I want to break up with you.”

His reaction was instant—tears streaming down his face, his cries louder than the words he struggled to say. I could barely understand him as he begged, pleaded. “Please, love. Don’t do this.” His voice cracked, but I stood motionless, my expression betraying nothing. No tears, no trembling hands—as if our four years together had left no mark on me, as if I wasn’t breaking apart inside.

“Love, please.” He reached for my hand, his fingers trembling as they caressed mine. He kissed it, his touch warm and desperate, as though holding on tightly enough might stop me from slipping away. The tears on his face told me everything his words couldn’t. He wanted me to stay. He wanted us to stay.

But I gently pulled my hand away. Turning my back to him, I took a shaky breath, biting my lip to keep myself steady. Behind me, I could hear him repeating our endearment—“love”—over and over, like it was the last thread tethering him to hope. 

“I don’t want this anymore,” I said softly. My voice barely carried over his sobs, but it cut through me like glass. I turned back to him and knelt by his side, wiping the tears from his face with the hem of my oversized shirt—his shirt. It still smelled faintly of him, of us, and the familiarity was suffocating.

“I can’t work this out,” I whispered, my hand brushing against his cheek. His eyes closed, and more tears fell, as if shutting out the world might stop it from crumbling. He covered his face, his fingers tangling in his hair, his voice breaking. “Why? I thought you loved me. I thought we’d always figure it out. Isn’t that what we promised?”

He was right. We had promised—promised to fight through anything, no matter how messy, no matter how hard. But promises can only stretch so far before they break. I didn’t want to keep stretching ours until it snapped, hurting him even more in the process.

Memories surged, vivid and raw. The fights, the misunderstandings, the endless loop of hurt and reconciliation.

Flashes of our relationship flooded my mind. Moments that felt like ghosts haunting me.

“Fuck! I told you to update me, didn’t I?” I had screamed at him during a video call once. “Love, I’m really sorry,” he replied. “My signal has been bad.” But I hadn’t believed him. I called them excuses, dismissing his apologies. It turned out he was telling the truth, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want the truth. I wanted control.

Another time, I exploded: “I’m the only one making an effort! You’re doing nothing. I fucking hate you!” He had seen my message but didn’t reply. When he finally did, he told me he had been sick with a high fever, his body giving up. But I hadn’t cared. I didn’t see his pain. I only saw what I wanted to see: excuses.

“You left me alone here, and now you’re having fun?” I messaged after he left for a family trip to Europe. His reply was gentle: “Love, this is a family trip. I didn’t mean to leave you.” But I was blinded by my own insecurities. I didn’t want him to be happy without me. I didn’t want him to be far away.

Toxic isn’t? I was that toxic. And I hated myself for it. Why couldn’t I change? Why couldn’t I be better for him?

“I just can’t... I can’t anymore,” I stuttered. God knows how much I wanted to stay. But if I stayed, I would only keep hurting him. He didn’t deserve the version of me that I had become.

“But do you love me?” he asked, his voice soft and fragile. His eyes, those eyes I had once adored, stared into mine. And for a moment, I was crushed under the weight of my own guilt. Why did I hurt him? Why didn’t I listen? Why didn’t I care for him when he needed me the most? Why couldn’t I be happy for him? Why couldn’t I love him right?

“Not anymore,” I lied. The tears finally came. I lowered my head, whispering the words I wished were true. I love you, I wanted to say. I still love you, but I don’t know how to love you without breaking you.

He nodded slowly, his lips trembling. “Okay,” he whispered. He pulled me into a tight embrace, his arms around me so firmly that I wanted to take it all back. I wanted to stay. I wanted to love him better.

“I love you,” he said, his voice steady despite the tears. “And I always will.”

And just like that, he began packing his things. Silence filled the space we had called ours. No words, no arguments—just the quiet acceptance of an ending. I helped him pack, my hands shaking with every shirt I folded.

“Love, I’m not letting you go because I don’t love you anymore,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m letting you go to give your heart what it truly deserves.” Perhaps he’s right. My heart doesn’t deserve his—so pure, so soft, so fragile. His heart needs someone who can truly care for it, someone better. And mine... mine couldn’t do that.

As the door closed behind him, the last image I saw was his back—the back I used to hug, the back I used to massage, the back I used to lean on. And now, it was the back walking away, the final glimpse of him I would ever have.

I collapsed onto the floor, sobbing until my chest hurt. I wasn’t letting him go because I wanted to. I was letting him go because I needed to.

This version of me will always haunt me. The toxic, unstable person I became. I pray for the day I can fix myself. Maybe then, if fate allows, I’ll find my way back to him. But for now, I’ll let him heal. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn how to heal, too.

I love him. I still do. But sometimes, love isn’t enough—not when you can’t love the right way.

“Maybe one day, when I’ve found the pieces of myself I lost along the way, I’ll find you again. But until then, I hope you find someone who gives you the love I couldn’t.”