I’ve been sitting with this persistent question: why do I miss my past relationship? It feels illogical, even a little shameful to admit—especially when I know exactly how much of myself I lost inside of it. I know the ways I made myself small. The ways I contorted my wants, dulled my voice, chipped away at my own edges just to become someone easier to love. I know I was always reaching, chasing, apologizing for needs that were never wrong to have in the first place.

And yet, there’s still this ache. It sneaks up on me in the quiet moments, like a shadow of something unfinished. It’s not loud, but it’s steady. A pulse just beneath the surface that reminds me that some part of me is still trying to make sense of what was never resolved.

I’ve come to understand that a lot of that ache is familiarity. Even when love is dysfunctional, even when it bruises you, it can still feel like home when that’s the only home you’ve ever known. I was raised inside chaos. Inside volatility, inconsistency. Love in my world meant walking on eggshells, keeping one eye on the door, always aware that connection could be withdrawn at any moment. My nervous system was built in that climate—tuned to the frequency of unpredictability. That wiring doesn’t unravel easily. It becomes a blueprint you keep following long after you’ve outgrown the house.

That’s how I became anxiously attached. Hyper-vigilant. Constantly scanning for the signs of disinterest, of pulling away, of affection cooling just slightly. I was always trying to close the distance before it widened too far to reach. And then I ended up with someone avoidant—someone who would retreat deeper into himself the closer I tried to get. That pairing is like a drug—the anxious one reaches, the avoidant one retreats, and the cycle feeds itself until you’re not sure if you’re fighting for love or just terrified of abandonment.

I got good at surviving him. I knew how to anticipate his moods, how to read the silences, how to catch the tiny shifts that meant he was slipping away again. I became fluent in his emotional weather—predicting storms before he even felt the wind pick up. That’s what dysfunction teaches you: how to become a shapeshifter. How to bend and fold yourself in hopes that if you just get the formula right, you’ll finally be enough to make someone stay.

And still—when I finally left, when I really left—he cracked open. He told me everything I had wanted to hear, all the things he loved about me, all the reasons I shouldn’t go. He begged me to stay, to try again, to believe that this time would be different.

It gutted me.

Because that was all I wanted. Not to leave—but to feel seen. To feel chosen. To feel like my efforts, my love, my care were worth something. But the irony is that I had to leave to finally be seen—and by then, it was too late.

It reminded me of that scene from The Break-Up, when Jennifer Aniston’s character finally breaks down, saying:
“I don’t know how we got here. Our entire relationship, I’ve gone above and beyond for you, for us. I cooked, I picked your shit up off the floor, I laid your clothes out for you like you were a four-year-old, I supported you—your work, your life. If we ever had dinner, I made the plans. I took care of everything. I just don’t feel like you appreciate any of it. I don’t feel like you appreciate me. All I want is for you to just show me that you care.”

That was me. That was the heart of what broke me—not the absence of love, but the absence of appreciation. The absence of care that didn’t have to be demanded, negotiated, or begged for. I was the one carrying the invisible labor of us. Planning everything, softening every interaction, adjusting every piece of myself to make us work. I did the tending, the nurturing, the heavy lifting. I was the glue while he let himself be held together by my persistence.

And yet, he wasn’t a bad person. He just was who he was. Unhealed, unavailable, not ready to meet me in the space where I was asking—pleading—for partnership. I think sometimes I don’t miss him, but I miss the possibility of who he could have been if he had chosen to grow. I miss the potential, the could-have-been version of us that I kept alive in my head far longer than I should have.

When I met him, he was important. He gave me refuge when I was running from my mother’s chaos. He was a soft place to land for a while. His mom showed me what maternal presence could feel like—something nurturing, safe, consistent. And we made real memories together—joyful ones, tender ones. I won’t pretend those didn’t matter. He mattered.

But no matter how much I loved him, no matter how much of myself I poured into us, I had to face the truth that we were never going to build a life together. Not the kind I wanted. Not the kind I needed. We weren’t growing—we were just surviving each other. And deep down, I knew I was building something alone, trying to construct a home where I was the only one laying bricks.

I think part of what I miss is the certainty of that dysfunction. I knew my role there. I knew the rhythm. I knew how to adapt, how to fix, how to survive. There’s a warped comfort in that because it gave me purpose. It made me feel needed, even if that need was born from imbalance.

What I didn’t see then is that I was just re-enacting my own childhood patterns. My anxious attachment, his avoidance—it wasn’t just coincidence. It was our wounds colliding, trying to rewrite history by playing the same game with new players. We weren’t partners; we were triggers wrapped in flesh, desperate for connection but unequipped to hold it.

I stayed longer than I should have because I believed in his potential. I believed if I just loved harder, sacrificed more, waited longer—he’d transform into the man I always saw glimpses of. But that was the fantasy. The reality is that I was always going to leave with empty hands, no matter how tightly I held on.

And when I think about what I truly miss—I realize it’s not him. It’s the version of me that still had hope. The girl who still believed that love was something you could earn. That if you just held out long enough, sacrificed just a little more, you could change the ending.

But I’ve outgrown her. I had to. She was built on survival, on proving her worth, on shrinking and twisting herself to be chosen. I love her, but I’m not her anymore.

The ache I feel—it isn’t longing. It’s grief. Grief for the years I spent clinging to a love that was always just out of reach. Grief for the certainty of a pain I was skilled at carrying. Grief for the hopeful girl who didn’t yet know she deserved to be loved without having to bleed for it.

Maybe that grief will always hum beneath the surface. But I don’t have to live there. I don’t have to build my life on top of it.

Because I’m not here to survive love anymore.

I’m here to live it.