25/07/2025
I don’t know how to love in halves. I never learned that. I’ve always believed love should arrive like rain in June—expected, whole. Not scattered. Not unsure. Here. Entirely.
So don’t offer me almost. I won’t know what to do with it. I’m not the type to stay if it’s only halfway. I won’t wither myself into maybes. If I’m the only one holding on, the only one trying—then maybe I shouldn’t. Because honestly, loving alone gets heavy.
Still, I’ll choose the kind that’s all in. If I choose you, I choose you with everything—the silences, the past, the storms. And if that’s too much, then I’d rather not love than be held in halves.