I feel like I'm meant to love—but not to be loved. Like my heart was built to pour into others, to understand, to stay when everyone else leaves. I show up, I give, I care too deeply and too loudly, and somewhere along the way, it's like people forget that I need love too. Real love. The kind that stays when l'm not strong. The kind that sees the cracks and doesn't run. Sometimes I wonder if I was made to be the healer, the safe place, the one who makes others feel whole, but never the one anyone chooses to stay for. And that kind of loneliness-it doesn't scream, it whispers. It whispers in the quiet moments, in the middle of the night, when I realize how long it's been since someone looked at me like I was worth holding onto.