The first time I saw her, it felt like the world paused for a second. She wasn’t just another face in the crowd; she had this presence, a kind of warmth that made me believe in something bigger than myself. It started with simple conversations, late-night talks that turned into deep confessions. She made me laugh in ways no one else did, and soon, I found myself imagining a future where she was the center of it.

We moved in together. It wasn’t perfect, but love never is. We built our lives around shared dreams, morning coffees, and the comfort of coming home to each other. I worked hard, climbing my way up in my career, making sure she had everything she wanted. I thought that was enough—that if I provided, if I gave her the world, she would see that she was everything to me.

But love is never just about two people. It’s about expectations, about histories we don’t fully understand. Her family was always there, watching, whispering, making decisions that should have been ours alone. Every choice I made had to pass through them. Every moment I wanted to be ours was borrowed, never truly belonging to just the two of us.

I tried. I worked harder. I listened more. I made changes. I sacrificed. But no matter what I did, I was never enough in their eyes—and eventually, in hers. What I gave was never the right thing, never the thing she needed, or maybe, never the thing she was willing to see. The realization hit me slowly, like the sun setting behind the mountains, dimming until all that was left was darkness. She was never mine, not really. I had held on to a dream, but dreams fade when reality is stronger.

The end wasn’t a storm, not some dramatic fight with shattered glasses and broken hearts. It was a quiet unraveling, a slow realization that love wasn’t enough when it was only one-sided. She walked away, or maybe I did—maybe we both did in different ways long before it ended. And when she left, I didn’t fight. Not because I didn’t care, but because I finally understood that love isn’t about holding on to someone who was never meant to stay.

Now, my days are different. The mornings are quieter, but they are peaceful. I find comfort in small rituals—making a cup of espresso matcha, the bitterness of the coffee mixing with the earthiness of the tea. It’s a balance, much like life itself. Some days are strong, sharp like espresso, others are calm and grounding like matcha.

Music fills the air, and for once, the lyrics don’t remind me of her. They remind me of me. I am still here, still standing, still learning what it means to be whole on my own.

But the greatest love I have now? It isn’t one that asks me to prove my worth. It isn’t one that makes me feel like I need permission to exist in someone’s life. It’s the small hands that reach for mine, the laughter that echoes through my home. It’s my daughter, my world, the one love that is truly mine to keep.

Life didn’t turn out the way I thought it would, but maybe that’s the beauty of it. I sip my matcha espresso, I listen to the music, and I smile. Because even after everything, I am here. And that, in itself, is enough.