There was a time I didn’t know love could hurt this quietly.
Not the dramatic kind you see in movies. Not slammed doors or raised voices. This kind of pain was softer. Slower. It lived in pauses. In the moments where I wanted to speak but chose silence because I loved her more than my need to be right.
Elaiza came into my life like a promise I didn’t know I was allowed to make.
And then one day, that promise trembled.
I remember the hurt not as anger, but as confusion. The kind that makes you stare at the ceiling at night, replaying conversations, wondering where the shift happened. Loving someone deeply while feeling unseen is a special kind of ache. You don’t want to leave. You don’t want to stay the same. You just want to be understood.
That season of us felt like “Temporary Love.”
Not because the love was small, but because it felt fragile. Like something precious that could slip through my fingers if I held it too tightly. I learned then that love can feel temporary even when the intention is forever. Circumstances change. People get tired. Hearts carry histories.
And that realization hurt.
What wounded me most wasn’t what was said, it was what wasn’t. The distance that slowly grew. The moments when I felt I was loving louder than I was being loved back. That’s when I learned something uncomfortable but true: loving someone doesn’t guarantee they’ll always know how to love you the way you need.
Still, I stayed.
Because beneath the hurt, there was truth.
“Never Let You Go” played in my head during those days, not as a song of possession, but of commitment. The kind that says: I choose you even when it’s hard. Even when I’m scared. Even when my heart is bruised but still beating your name.
Love, I learned, is not the absence of pain.
It’s the decision to face it honestly.
But healing required something harder.
I had to unlearn versions of love I thought were correct.
That’s where “Unlearned You” quietly lives, not as regret, but as growth. I had to unlearn the idea that love means enduring everything in silence. I had to unlearn shrinking myself to keep peace. I had to unlearn the belief that pain is the price of staying.
I realized love should stretch you but not erase you.
Elaiza, in her own way, became both the lesson and the companion through that lesson. Not perfect. Not finished. But real. And real love, I’ve learned, doesn’t rush healing. It sits with it. Sometimes awkwardly. Sometimes patiently. Sometimes clumsily but sincerely.
What we survived taught me this:
Love is not proven in the easy days.
It is revealed in how two people choose each other after the hurt has been named.
I don’t write this from a place of bitterness. I write this from clarity.
I am stronger now. Softer too. Wiser in the quiet ways that matter. Loving her taught me my boundaries. Staying taught me my courage. Almost losing us taught me the value of presence.
Some loves pass through us briefly.
Some stay and change shape.
Some hurt us just enough to teach us how to love better.
This love, with Elaiza, did all three.
And if love is a song, then ours was never just one track.
It was an album. With pauses. With rewinds. With lessons between verses.
Still playing. Still learning.
Still choosing.
A Letter to You, Elaiza
Elaiza, I wanted to write this not to remind us of the hurt, but to share what I feel with honesty. I want you to know how much I care, how much I choose us, even in moments when it’s hard.
I love you, not perfectly, not without flaws, but fully, with the lessons behind every ache. Every pause, every misstep, every silent night has taught me patience, understanding, and the courage to show up again and again for us.
You’ve been my teacher, my companion, my mirror. Loving you has made me see myself more clearly, and I hope that loving you also allows you to see the best parts of yourself reflected in me.
No matter what challenges we face, I am committed to growing with you, learning with you, and holding our love gently but steadfastly.
Always,
Via
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