Mira
There is nobody better than you
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They began quietly.
The kind of beginning that doesn’t feel like one until you’re already in the middle of it.
He looked at her like she was someone he’d waited his whole life to meet.
And she—
She tried to become the girl he saw. She liked the way he spoke to her, like she was made of something rare. He called her brave, beautiful, gentle. She wanted to be those things so badly, she started pretending she already was. And maybe he was pretending too. Maybe he needed someone to admire, someone to believe in. Someone soft, someone glowing. He made her feel like she was already healed. But the truth is, she wasn’t.
She was sharp around the edges. Defensive. She didn’t always say the right thing, or feel things the right way. Sometimes she said nothing at all. He kept looking at her like she was a miracle.
And she kept trying not to disappoint him. But eventually, something cracked. He didn’t smile the same. He didn’t ask the same questions.
And one night, sitting beside him, she asked,
Then he said,
She just nodded. Because she understood.
She hadn’t loved him, not really.
She had loved the way he held himself together, the steadiness in his voice, the way he made her feel like she was becoming someone better.
But when he faltered—when he showed her his sadness, his silence—she didn’t know what to do with it. They had both been in love with possibilities.
Not people. So they let go.
No yelling. No one begging. Just a quiet goodbye from two people who once thought they could be everything for each other. ⸻ Now, some nights, she stares at the ceiling, tracing the memory of him like a name she forgot how to pronounce.
She doesn’t blame him. And if he ever talks about her,
she hopes he tells them what he saw in her
not how she turned out to be. Because he was the best part of her story and there’s nobody better than him
The kind of beginning that doesn’t feel like one until you’re already in the middle of it.
He looked at her like she was someone he’d waited his whole life to meet.
And she—
She tried to become the girl he saw. She liked the way he spoke to her, like she was made of something rare. He called her brave, beautiful, gentle. She wanted to be those things so badly, she started pretending she already was. And maybe he was pretending too. Maybe he needed someone to admire, someone to believe in. Someone soft, someone glowing. He made her feel like she was already healed. But the truth is, she wasn’t.
She was sharp around the edges. Defensive. She didn’t always say the right thing, or feel things the right way. Sometimes she said nothing at all. He kept looking at her like she was a miracle.
And she kept trying not to disappoint him. But eventually, something cracked. He didn’t smile the same. He didn’t ask the same questions.
And one night, sitting beside him, she asked,
Do you still see me the same way?He didn’t answer right away.
Then he said,
I don’t know if I ever really saw you.And she didn’t cry.
She just nodded. Because she understood.
She hadn’t loved him, not really.
She had loved the way he held himself together, the steadiness in his voice, the way he made her feel like she was becoming someone better.
But when he faltered—when he showed her his sadness, his silence—she didn’t know what to do with it. They had both been in love with possibilities.
Not people. So they let go.
No yelling. No one begging. Just a quiet goodbye from two people who once thought they could be everything for each other. ⸻ Now, some nights, she stares at the ceiling, tracing the memory of him like a name she forgot how to pronounce.
She doesn’t blame him. And if he ever talks about her,
she hopes he tells them what he saw in her
not how she turned out to be. Because he was the best part of her story and there’s nobody better than him