Imagine losing someone
because they loved you well.

Not because they hurt you.

Not because they disrespected you.

Not because they made you question yourself.

But because they didn’t.

Because they were consistent.

Because they showed up
in ways that didn’t require guessing.

Because they chose you
fully, clearly, without hesitation.

And that kind of love didn’t feel safe to you.

It felt like pressure.

Not because it was wrong,
but because it was unfamiliar.

Because you were used to distance.

To uncertainty.

To love that came and went
without explanation.

So when something steady showed up,
you didn’t settle into it.

You resisted it.

You called it too much.

Too much attention.

Too much care.

Too much presence.

But it wasn’t too much.

It was just more
than you were willing to meet.

I wasn’t asking for anything
I wasn’t already giving.

I just expected to be met there.

And instead of rising,
you pulled back.

Instead of learning,
you labeled it.

It’s easier to call something too much
than to admit
you didn’t know how to hold it.

Because real love doesn’t feel overwhelming
when you’re ready for it.

It feels steady.

It feels safe.

It feels like something
you don’t have to question.

But if you’ve never learned how to sit inside that,
it feels like something you need to escape.

So you lost it.

Not because it was wrong.

Not because it was unhealthy.

But because it required a version of you
you hadn’t become yet.

And one day, you’ll understand.

Not all at once.

Just slowly.

Quietly.

When you realize how rare it is
to be loved without confusion.

I might not be there.

Because I wasn’t too much.

I was real.

And you weren’t ready to meet me there.

(I wasn’t too much, I was just more than you were ready to meet.)