I have spent so much of myself believing that if I loved you harder, listened better, held you longer, or gave you every beautiful piece of my heart, one day you would finally feel full. But there is a quiet grief in realizing that I will never be enough to make you happy. No amount of tenderness I offer can reach the place inside you that I cannot touch. I could empty my soul into your hands, and you would still leave with room for more.

Perhaps that is the cruelest kind of love, not that I have too little to give, but that everything I have is still not what you need. And so I remain here, carrying a love that is endless, while learning that someone can give you their entire world and still never become the home you’re searching for.