I Loved You, Even in the Quiet Breaking

 It came back to me again today—how, one year ago, everything began. I can still remember it in detail: who we were at the start, how I tried so hard to hold on to that unfamiliar feeling. I kept asking myself, am I just curious, or am I confused? I wrestled with that question for a while, until one word settled quietly in me—reciprocate.

And suddenly, I felt something I couldn’t explain.

I tried to brush it off back then. I was at a point in my life where I was finally living the way I wanted, and yet, at the same time, love came knocking—unannounced, without explanation. It felt magical. It was fun. Looking back at our old conversations now, I see two different people—both of us trying to hold on to something we didn’t fully understand, even when the energy already said otherwise.

Then May 2025 came. We met again—and this time, we were already a couple.

I remember telling her before, what’s the point of a long courtship if we end up in the same place anyway? If you court for three months, that could’ve already been our third monthsary. So everything moved fast. Everything felt sudden. And yes, it was overwhelming.

But somehow, in just a year, it felt like we had known each other for ten.

The way we clash, the way we throw things at each other—it feels like a history that’s too deep for just twelve months. People say the more you hurt each other, the more you love each other. But I don’t believe that. I want to believe that love should come with understanding. With restraint. With respect. That if you truly love someone, you learn to think before you speak—you choose words that won’t wound.

And I want to believe we are trying. Trying not just for the relationship, but for ourselves.

I just don’t know how long we can keep holding on to that.

Still, I am grateful for this one year. We celebrated it, and it overwhelmed me in ways I couldn’t even express. I know I’m not naturally expressive—I can be nonchalant—but in this relationship, I’ve been trying. Trying to show up the best way I know how.

But most of the time, when I do show how I truly feel, it feels like it’s taken against me. Like I’m being attacked for it. So I learned to keep things to myself. Not because I don’t feel deeply—but because I don’t want to be mocked or criticized for feeling at all.

I used to think I was strong. Maybe I still am. But now, that strength looks like silence.

I wish I could speak about all of this freely. I wish the world could understand. But there’s always that discomfort—that fear. Because whether I speak or stay quiet, I still end up hurting.

And in between that silence, I carry everything alone.

One year of my life—living the kind of love I once desired, even prayed for. But not the kind of love that comes with words so painful they break me from the inside out. Arguments that I couldn’t always handle, wounds I learned to hide. And yet, my silence became my way of surviving. Even when I was breaking, I held it in. I swallowed it whole.

Quietly.

My quietness, in a way, protected me. It taught me when to speak—and when to hold back. It taught me that not every emotion needs to be proven, not every pain needs to be explained just to be understood.

But I am still learning… how to be heard without being hurt, and how to love without losing myself in the process.