I once believed life was a straight line.

If I worked hard enough, endured enough, succeeded enough,

I could return to that starting point,

carrying back everything I had lost,

and stand before her again.

At the time, I truly believed—

time could be reclaimed,

the past merely paused, not ended.

For this belief,

I gave up nearly everything “now.”

I gave up hesitation.

I gave up uncertainty.

I gave up the thought that maybe there was another path.

I turned myself into a person with purpose—

someone always moving forward,

someone who never allowed themselves to fail.

I told myself :

When I succeed.

When I’m recognized.

When I finally stand in the right place—

everything will return.

She will come back.

That world will open to me.

And my life will finally be right.

Later I realized :

That wasn’t hope.

It was a gentle but cruel illusion.

The person I loved didn’t deceive me.

She simply couldn’t carry my life for me.

She wasn’t dishonest—she just learned earlier how to survive.

But I took “being chosen” as proof of my existence.

I raised one person to a height she should never bear.

I placed the weight of my entire life on a single nod or shake of the head.

That wasn’t love.

It was a gamble with everything on the line.

After it all ended,

I passed through a long silence.

No goal. No direction. No familiar sense of “forward motion.”

For the first time, I realized :

Without that name, I didn’t know how to define myself.

It was shame—not for failure, but because I discovered—

I had never truly lived for myself.

I had only lived in an idea—

a version waiting to be validated.

The real change didn’t happen when I let her go.

It came when I finally admitted :

Some dreams—no matter how much you give of yourself—will never be caught by this world.

That doesn’t mean you’re not good enough.

Only that you bet on the wrong thing.

Slowly, my gaze shifted—from “What if she chose me?”—to a harder question :

If no one chooses me at all… do I still want to keep living?

This question is far harder than chasing success ever was.

I began learning how to live again—not grandly, not in ways worth envying—but day after day : unglamorous yet real.

I allowed myself fatigue. Allowed hesitation. Allowed nights with no answers at all.

No longer tied every effort to “proving” something.

I started doing things not because they’d make me seen—but because—I wanted to stay with them for long stretches of time.

For the first time, I understood what “stability” means: not safety—but freedom from performance.

About love—I learned too late :

Love is not salvation. Not exchange.

Love is not : “I’ve done so much—why won’t you choose me?”

Love is : “Even if you don’t choose me—I am still whole.”

When I no longer needed love to prove my worth,

that’s when love came closest to me.

Now I meet people—not because they can take me into some world—but because they’re willing to stand within mine.

No promises about the future. No rush to define meaning.

Just walking together—side by side.

If you ask me now : Do I regret that all-or-nothing gamble?

I won’t deny that chapter of my life—it cost me dearly—but it also preserved something rare in this age :

The truth—that once upon a time,

I truly believed in something wholeheartedly.

But if you ask whether I’d do it again?

No more.

Not because I’ve grown cold—but because now at last—I understand :

Life isn't meant to be proven—it's meant to be lived through.

No one needs to stamp their approval on my existence anymore.

I still believe in meaning—but it’s no longer an endpoint; it’s a way of walking together.

I still strive—but not for permission to exist.

I still love—but no longer surrender myself completely.

If this counts as growth—it arrived late.

But at least…

I’m still on the road.

This time—for myself.