I don’t walk on water

I never claimed to walk on water.
I never believed I was perfect.
All I ever needed—what I kept asking for—was honesty. Just a reason. Just the truth.

You made me feel like I was untouchable, like I could do no wrong in your eyes. Not because I demanded it, but because you never told me otherwise. I asked you, over and over, if I had hurt you, if there was something I needed to fix, something I wasn’t seeing. Every time, your answer was the same: no.

So I believed you.

I believed that if something was wrong, you would trust me enough to say it. I believed that love meant communication—that we could face things, even uncomfortable things, together. I wasn’t afraid of criticism. I wasn’t afraid of being wrong. I was willing to grow, to adjust, to meet you halfway… but I needed to know where halfway even was.

I can’t read your mind.
I can’t fix what I can’t see.

And yet, somehow, you made your silence feel like peace—until it became distance. Until one day, without warning, you walked away.

That’s the part I can’t make sense of.

If I was doing something wrong, why didn’t you tell me?
If something in you was changing, why didn’t you let me in?
How did something we built together become something you could leave behind so easily?

I’m not asking because I need to be perfect. I’m asking because I deserved a chance—to understand, to try, to fight for us with clarity instead of confusion.

I would have listened.
I would have learned.
I would have tried.

But you never gave me the truth—only the illusion that everything was okay.

And in the end, I wasn’t left with answers.
Just questions… and the quiet echo of everything you never said.