I wrote about a boy yesterday. To be honest, maybe not just one boy. Maybe all the boys I’ve been hurting in the past year, the ones who wanted me to be something I just couldn’t. Not yet.

I wrote a piece about a boy whose heart I broke. Whose heart I knew I was going to break, but I was powerless to stop it. It all happened so fast—the feelings, the time, the way two people sort of mesh together, and even if you know from the start it’s doomed, you still want to try—you know, that feeling.

I wrote about him yesterday.
Him, and the others.

I told him I was sorry. Sorry, because I don’t think I’ll never truly learn how to live without looking back, to be open without worrying about the state of everyone else’s heart. I told him that I don’t think I’ll never stop caring about the ones who prioritized me, even though neither of us was sure of what we really wanted.

I told him that I don’t think I’ll never learn how to walk away, to give a little less. I’ll always lean in fully, jump into the waters before testing, hope that things will work out. Even if I realize, somewhere in the middle of my swim, that I won’t make it to the other side. And I have to swim back before I drown.
 
And when I finished writing it, I started to cry.

Because I think that’s what I’ve been trying to say for so long, but wasn’t able to articulate. Because I wrestle with the fact that I love love, and want to be loved, and want to love. But I also can’t right now.

And because I’m not the bad guy, even though I feel like the bad guy. But if I think I’m a bad guy, then that’s basically believing that what I’m doing is wrong. Which means I don’t value my own opinions, and I’m entitled to those, unapologetically.

So I don’t have to feel like the bad guy, and I shouldn’t.

And I don’t have to be sorry for wanting what I want, for needing what I need.

And I shouldn’t.

But I’m still sorry.

Why?

What I wrote yesterday was heartbreakingly honest—because I know I’ll never stop looking back, I’ll never stop caring, I’ll never stop trying to love the people who can’t love me the way I need. Which isn’t the type of love where I’m in the center or on a pedestal, but to love my imperfections as they are—imperfect.

Writing that was a self-realization, really. Staring at the page made me see that maybe I should stop being so damn hard on myself, stop expecting people to understand me, and know that I need to be loved a certain way, and that’s okay. And maybe I need to feel a certain way right now, and be a little selfish, and that’s okay too.

Maybe I will always live on two sides of the same coin: apologetic and non-apologetic. Maybe I will not apologize for being me, but still carry heartache because I love. And I will always love.

Yesterday, I wrote about a boy.
But I really wrote about my heart.

And with every honest realization, every poured-out confession, every articulated fear, it’s becoming stronger.

And that’s a beautiful thing.