If loving you means losing myself, then so be it. I have already learned how easy it is to forget who I was before you—how my thoughts began to orbit around your name, how my days slowly rearranged themselves just to make room for you. I stopped asking what I needed and started measuring everything by how it might reach you, please you, keep you close. I gave you my quiet moments, the ones meant for healing. I offered my strength even when I was tired, my patience even when I was breaking. Loving you became a slow surrender, not loud or dramatic, but subtle—like erasing myself line by line while convincing myself it was devotion. I stayed even when doubt whispered that I was shrinking. I smiled through the ache of being half-seen, half-chosen, telling myself that love was supposed to hurt a little. I learned how to wait without asking, to understand without being understood, to hold on without being held the same way. And yet, there is no regret in how deeply I loved. Even in losing parts of myself, I discovered how vast my heart could be, how brave it was to choose love knowing the cost. If I disappear in the process, let it be known that I did not vanish out of weakness, but out of a love that gave everything it had—until there was nothing left but truth, and the quiet hope that one day, I will find myself again.