The Weight of What Wasn't Said

8:00 p.m. onward

I was still hoping.

Still sitting in the same spot, wrapped in the same blanket, scrolling the same old messages, letting the same aching silence fill the air like smoke I couldn't cough out.

The clock moved. From 8 to 9. From light to dark.

But nothing changed.

He didn't message.

And I couldn't stop checking.

I didn't know what was in his mind. Didn't know what kept him away. But something inside me kept whispering it must be me.

That I must've said something wrong. Been too much. Too distant. Too clingy. Too quiet. Too something. Too Rue.

Because if I wasn't the problem, then what was?

This heartbreak didn't feel like the others.

It felt deeper. Quieter. Like something was slowly hollowing me out from the inside, and I didn't even fight it.

It was ...

Worse than the darkest parts of my past.

Worse than the time I was thirteen, locked in my room with a knife in my hand, trying to bleed the noise out of my head.

Worse than the panic, the silence, the bruises no one ever saw.

Because back then—I didn't know love. Not really.

But now?

Now I had given it all. To someone who mattered more than anyone ever had.

I had trusted him with everything. With the parts I never shared. With the girl I never showed. The broken Rue. The soft Rue. The Rue who couldn't always be strong.

And still, I was here. Alone.

Not because he left. But because maybe I'd always been too hard to hold.

I felt everything.

All at once.

Until I felt nothing at all.

The hours dragged.

My thoughts got heavier.

"God, does he even love me?"

I whispered it into the room, barely audible.

And then I laughed—dry, strange, unbelieving.

Even the way I speak has changed.

I used to sound sure. Controlled. Closed off.

Now I sounded like a stranger to myself.

Where was the Rue that didn't tremble when she talked?

Where was the girl Aurora looked up to?

Where was the one with the unreadable face? The one who stayed quiet but firm, who didn't break like this?

I wanted her back.

I wanted Me back.

The version of me who didn't wait for someone to choose her.

Because the truth is—I love him.

I do.

And maybe I always will.

But I don't want to lose me in the process.

Because loving him shouldn't mean hating myself.

It shouldn't mean questioning my worth every night he doesn't reply.

And still—I don't blame him.

He has his own storms. His own silences. His own hurt I'll never fully understand.

Maybe he's just not ready.

Maybe he needs space.

Maybe he's healing in his own way, and I'm just collateral.

But I know this much—

Even if he never meant to hurt me, I'm still hurting.

And I don't want to bleed for someone who didn't ask me to.

By 1 a.m., I was pacing my room. Not because I had anywhere to go, but because I couldn't stay still. Couldn't lie down. Couldn't sit with the thoughts anymore.

I pulled open my bag.

The old one. The one that held all the versions of me I didn't talk about.

And there it was—small, sharp, rusted. A blade I hadn't touched in a while.

I held it.

Just held it.

The metal cold in my hand, like memory made tangible.

I wasn't planning anything.

I just didn't know what else to feel.

Because it's one thing to be alone.

It's another to feel unwanted.

And it's something else entirely—to feel like you're too much for the person you love.

That was the worst part.

I didn't even want to die.

I just wanted the ache to stop. The longing. The constant war between loving him and forgetting myself.

2:03 a.m.

I placed the blade back.

Slow. Gentle. Like even that small act mattered.

And then I opened the window.

The night air hit me in the chest. Cold, honest, real.

I remembered who I used to be.

The girl who took herself out for coffee just to feel alive.

The girl who lit a cigarette in fresh air and didn't apologize for the way she needed space.

The girl who laughed loud when she felt it and stayed quiet when she didn't.

I used to be that girl.

And maybe I could be her again.

Not all at once.

But piece by piece.

I looked out at the quiet street. The empty roads. The soft glow from the streetlamp. And I whispered—

"Rue. Just love yourself a little. Like you used to."

And I will.

I don't blame Nigel.

I love him. I always will.

Even if he never says it again.

Even if he never comes back.

But I won't leave me behind for that love.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

But I won't leave me behind for that love.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

Even if part of me still waits for the sound of his voice, the warmth of his laugh, the soft way he used to say my name—I know now that I can't keep holding my breath for someone who might never return.

Because maybe love is more than presence. Maybe it's memory. Maybe it's the way I still flinch at 2:17 a.m. because my body is used to his voice by now. Maybe it's the ache that stays even after the wound closes.

And maybe that's okay.

Maybe loving someone doesn't always mean you end up with them.

Maybe it means you learn how to carry them gently—even after they've stopped holding you.

I still love him.

I will always do.

Not out of delusion. Not out of denial.

But because when I loved him, I meant it. With every soft thing in me. With every story I told him that no one else knew. With every panic I tried to explain. With every "I'm okay" he saw through.

That kind of love doesn't go away overnight.

Or ever.

And I won't pretend it has.

It'll never.

But I also won't let it bury me.

Because somewhere in all of this, I forgot that I mattered too.

That my voice, my story, my healing—they aren't dependent on his affection.

They're mine.

And maybe tonight, that's enough.

Maybe surviving this moment is enough.

I'll brush my teeth. Wash my face. Pull my blanket up to my chin. I'll cry, maybe. Or I won't.

But I'll breathe.

And breathing, Rue—breathing is a kind of fight.

It's quiet. But it's still brave.

So I'll sleep tonight.

Not because I'm okay.

But because I want to be.

And maybe someday, when the hurting is quieter, I'll wake up and the first thing I'll feel won't be longing.

It'll be peace.

Not because he came back.

But because I did.