Sometimes, I love too much. Sometimes, I love until I can't anymore. Sometimes, I love someone who no longer exists—or maybe never did. In a relationship that’s long since failed, I find myself stitching wounds you’ve left behind, wounds you tear open again without a thought. I wonder if you do it intentionally, or if you’re just careless, stumbling through us without a second glance. Sometimes, I think you don’t even consider me, or the pain you cause.
I’ve tried to sew a beautiful quilt for us to lie on, but in the end, I know I’m just stitching scraps. I buy the fabric alone, I hold it all together alone, and even when I think the quilt is finally taking shape, your inconsistency unravels it all. I stitch and stitch, pricking my fingers on the needle every time you bump into me, blind to my existence, indifferent to my feelings. My emotions—invalid, inconvenient, insignificant.
Every time I try to leave, you don’t let me go. When I gather the courage to walk away, you plead, you beg, you make me believe this could become something it will never be. And so, here I am again, patiently stitching scraps. You don’t let me leave—until it no longer suits you, until I no longer entertain you, until you grow bored of me.
And then, when your convenience ends, you’ll stop me, look at everything I’ve poured into us, at the quilt I’ve tried so hard to complete. You’ll cover your eyes and tell me it was never real, that I should stop dreaming, stop trying. You’ll make me see that all of it—my effort, my time, my belief—was for nothing. That my time didn’t matter, that my feelings didn’t matter, because you were satisfied, and you were more important. More important than me. Again.
And so, this is the end. The end of everything I created, everything I imagined. I wanted to finish that quilt. I wanted you to let me finish it. Even if it turned out ugly, at least it would’ve been something. But now I know it’s over. There was never anything here, and I would’ve kept saying yes until the bitter end.
Now, I face the emptiness. The emptiness of lost time. The ache of a longing that never left, a longing for someone I created but never truly knew. I see now I invested in a failing company, tried to renovate a house with a crumbling foundation, and stitched a quilt you kept tearing apart. In the end, it was all mine. My vision, my effort, my loss.
And now, I’ll gather the scraps alone. I’ll pack my things, move on, and try to rediscover myself. I thought I’d find myself in you, but I held onto the wrong hand, and you let me fall.
Now I’ve shattered, like glass against the floor, into a million tiny pieces. And I can’t even begin to hope that someone else will help me pick them up, help me rebuild. This is my task, my journey, my new beginning—one stitch at a time.
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