Don’t say you love me — say you loved the disguise, the careful alignment, the soft-spoken lies. You loved the outline, the pencil-thin frame, the version of me that erased my own name. You loved the fragments I sanded down smooth, the parts of my chaos I didn’t let move. The laugh I made lighter, the words I’d restrain, the storms in my chest I swallowed like shame. But every time I tried to be real, to show you a truth that cut instead of healed— you shifted. Not loud. Not enough to fight. Just enough to dim the room’s fragile light. Every step forward was losing you ground, every confession a loosening sound. Every “this is me” felt sharp, felt wrong, like standing too tall in a room too small. So I learned the pattern, the cause and the cost, which pieces of me made you almost lost. Which words made you quiet, which truths made you fade, which parts of my being you wished I’d trade. And it was always the truest parts first — the hunger, the fire, the blessing, the curse. You loved me easiest when I stayed contained, when I asked for less, when I softened my pain. But love doesn’t flinch when a soul stands tall, love doesn’t shrink when the masks start to fall. So don’t say you love me if love couldn’t stay when I stopped bending and spoke my own name. Because if what you liked least was the core of my chest, then you didn’t love me— you loved who hurt me the best.