It is painful to love someone too much. To love someone is to hand them the map to every place inside you that once begged never to be touched again. It is to lower your guard slowly, trembling as you peel apart the walls you spent years building around your heart. Walls made not from stone, but from the flesh of your own soul stitched carefully over old wounds, abandonment, grief, and all the nights you promised yourself you would never be this vulnerable again. And still, love makes you do it anyway. And for a while, it feels beautiful. To be seen. To be held. To believe that perhaps this time, your softness will finally be safe in someone else’s hands. Until one day, they leave. So you begin rebuilding the walls again. You gather whatever remains of yourself after the collapse, the torn flesh of old hopes, the fragile bones of trust, the weary pieces of a soul that has loved too deeply too many times, and you force them into walls once more. But each rebuilding feels weaker than the last. The walls grow thinner now. More fragile. More exhausted. As though your soul is running out of itself to sacrifice in the name of survival. That is the cruellest thing about loving too much. It is not only that people leave, but how every goodbye takes something from you that never fully returns. M. | May 2026

It is painful to love someone too much. To love someone is to hand them the map to every place inside you that once begged never to be touched again. It is to lower your guard slowly, trembling as you peel apart the walls you spent years building around your heart. Walls made not from stone, but from the flesh of your own soul stitched carefully over old wounds, abandonment, grief, and all the nights you promised yourself you would never be this vulnerable again. And still, love makes you do it anyway. And for a while, it feels beautiful. To be seen. To be held. To believe that perhaps this time, your softness will finally be safe in someone else’s hands. Until one day, they leave. So you begin rebuilding the walls again. You gather whatever remains of yourself after the collapse, the torn flesh of old hopes, the fragile bones of trust, the weary pieces of a soul that has loved too deeply too many times, and you force them into walls once more. But each rebuilding feels weaker than the last. The walls grow thinner now. More fragile. More exhausted. As though your soul is running out of itself to sacrifice in the name of survival. That is the cruellest thing about loving too much. It is not only that people leave, but how every goodbye takes something from you that never fully returns. M. | May 2026

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