The truth dawned on Amara slowly, the way most painful truths arrive; quietly and in moments that seem ordinary until they pile up. She was always the strong one. The one who listened without interrupting, who stayed calm when emotions ran high, who knew exactly what to say when everything felt like it was falling apart.
In the beginning, she didn’t mind. Love, she believed, was patience. Love was endurance. Love meant staying even when it was hard. So when he leaned on her, she stood firmer. When he doubted himself, she spoke with confidence for both of them. When he fell apart, she held the pieces together with gentle hands and tired smiles.
People praised her for it. You’re so understanding.
He’s lucky to have you.
And those words made the weight feel meaningful—at least for a while.
But slowly, love began to feel like labour.
She noticed she was always the one checking in, apologising first, smoothing things over. His growth depended on her encouragement. His peace depended on her silence. His happiness depended on how much of herself she was willing to give up.@
When she spoke about her dreams, he changed the topic. When she needed comfort, he offered distractions. His attention was always somewhere else—on his phone, his plans, his world. Whenever she tried, the conversation circled back to him—his stress, his past, his struggles. Her needs felt like inconveniences. Her exhaustion went unnoticed.She stopped sharing her worries because there was no space for them.
The realisation came on an ordinary afternoon. He was upset again, and she reached for the familiar role; comforter, fixer, anchor. But this time, her body resisted. Her chest felt tight. Her hands felt heavy. And a quiet thought surfaced, clear and undeniable. She took her bag and left.
That night, Amara lay awake, replaying conversations, wondering when love had started to feel so lonely. She missed the version of herself who laughed easily, who spoke freely, who didn’t feel responsible for another adult’s emotional survival.
Weeks passed without calls. Days slipped by without messages. One night, she called him.
“Hey,” she said. “I haven’t heard from you for a while.”
“I’ve been occupied,” he replied, distracted. “Work, friends, stuff.”
“Do you ever get occupied with me?” she asked.
There was a pause.
“Amara, don’t start this again.”
She swallowed. “I’m not starting anything. I just want to feel like I matter to you.”
“You’re being dramatic,” he said. “You know I care.”
But his voice didn’t sound like he cared.
Later, she sent one final message: “I’ve been feeling neglected.”
His reply came hours later: “You’re overthinking.”
One evening, Amara sat alone at the bus stop, watching people rush past. A boy ran toward his girlfriend, smiling, holding her bag, laughing at something she whispered. It wasn’t loud love. It wasn’t dramatic. It was present.
That’s when the truth settled in her heart. Feeling neglected wasn’t a misunderstanding.
Feeling uncared for wasn’t imaginary. Men invest where their hearts are.
And his heart simply wasn’t with her.
So Amara stopped begging for attention. She stopped shrinking to fit into someone’s half-effort. Instead, she chose herself.
Because real care doesn’t make you feel invisible. It makes you feel seen.
Love, she understood then, was never meant to be a one-person effort. It was supposed to meet you halfway, not rest entirely on your shoulders. It was meant to nourish you, not slowly drain you dry.
She took a calm decision to stop carrying what was never hers to hold. She expected guilt, but what came instead was relief. Deep, unfamiliar relief.
With time, she felt lighter. Her laughter returned. Her voice grew stronger. She learned that real love doesn’t require you to disappear to keep it alive.
And she never forgot the truth she gained through experience: love that needs you to carry it becomes a burden, not a blessing.
