The Season of You

We ended as abruptly as we started.

You were a season in my life.Half my winter, half my spring.

We’ll call it The Season of You.

Because, at the end of it all, that’s what it was about.

You.

See, I was never really a priority.

Maybe in the beginning, I was. Maybe there was a time when you genuinely wanted to make room for me. But somewhere along the way, something changed.

Where you used to make time for our gym dates, our movie nights, our dinner nights, eventually, there was always something else.

You didn’t have time to see me after work, but you had time to go to dinner with your friends.

You didn’t have time to spend more than a few hours with me on the weekend, but you could stay out with your friends until two in the morning.

And that became the argument.

Not because I needed every second of your day.

Because I wanted to feel like I mattered in it.

Every time I tried to come to you with my feelings, you became upset. Sometimes you would shut down. Sometimes you would ignore me for the rest of the night, leaving me alone with whatever I had been trying to express until the next day came.

I started questioning whether wanting more time with you made me needy.

Whether wanting reassurance made me difficult.

Whether wanting to feel chosen was somehow asking for too much.

Looking back, I don't think I was asking for too much.

I think I was asking the wrong person.

The week before my birthday, we celebrated a friend of yours.

We stayed out until midnight. You had work the next day, but it didn't seem to matter.

Then came my birthday celebration.

I had been excited.

I got my nails done. I was looking forward to feeling celebrated, even if we were celebrating early because we weren't sure what your schedule would look like on my actual birthday.

You planned. Somewhat.

But I made the reservation.

I looked up the movie times—the movie you wanted to see.

You told me you didn't want to be out past midnight because you had work the next day. You needed your eight hours of sleep.

You didn't even offer to pick me up.

We met at the restaurant.

And that morning, our conversation went like this.

Word for word.

I'm reading the receipts as I type this.

Me: “You know we don't have to do anything for me, right? I know you work tomorrow. I don't wanna bother you or inconvenience you and make you lose any sleep.”

You: “Ya vas a empezar? What's your problem? Just cause I said I wanted to be home at midnight, you're acting like this. We don't have to do anything if you gonna act weird about stuff.”

Me: “Okay.”

You: “Everything is a problem with you. Literally.”

Me: “It's a problem to you that I wanna spend time with you?”

You: “Past 12. I work, you don't.”

Me: “For the party last week for your friends, you didn't mind staying out late, but for me it's a major problem. It's fine.”

You: “It's cool, you obviously feel some type of way cause I wanna rest before I have to bust my ass all day by myself. It was a one-time thing cause I was DD. Always killing the vibe. I was nothing but nice and willing to see you, but you always testing me for no reason.”

Me: “It's fine. You'll be back before midnight.”

You: “Si vas a andar así, ni para qué voy.”

Me: “Whatever you want. I'm not any type of way. You wanted me to drop it, so I dropped it.”

You: “You gonna wanna see me then without attitude?”

Me: “Yes sir.”

Reading those messages now, I can see something I couldn't see then.

I was already hurting. And instead of admitting that, I was trying to convince you—and myself—that I wasn't.

I had planned to leave you that day.

I know how that sounds.

But I had.

I had decided that I would enjoy one final day with you, let myself have those last few hours, and then walk away.

Because I wanted to be shown love for just a little while longer, but the end of the night came, and I couldn't do it.

I couldn't leave.

I loved you too much to walk away.

So I stayed.

And that part wasn't your fault.

Four days later, you left me.

May 12, 2026.

Three hours before my birthday, we argued again. This time, it was because of your lack of communication.

You called it jealousy.

You told me we should go our separate ways, and then you disappeared.

The next day was my birthday.

There wasn't a single message from you.

I tried so hard not to cry.

I tried not to let anyone see how badly I was hurting. My friends knew what had happened, though. I had broken the news to them that day, and they tried their best to keep me busy.

I blew up your phone throughout the day.

I tried to talk to you.

I tried to understand.

I tried to fix something that, apparently, you had already decided was over.

Around nine that night, you finally sent me a long message.

You apologized that it had to happen on my birthday.

You said we needed to go our separate ways.

And after that, I never heard from you again.

I tried for days to reach you.

Nothing.

To this day, I haven't heard a word from you.

I fell for you.

And maybe that's the part that hurts the most.

Because you were the first person I had truly allowed myself to fall for after my life drastically changed.

For the first time, I opened up to someone fully.

For the first time, I let someone in.

I had spent so long afraid of loving someone because of my past. Because I knew what it felt like to lose people I loved deeply. Because somewhere inside me, I had convinced myself that loving someone meant eventually having to survive losing them.

And then you came along.

You painted yourself as someone like me.

Someone caring.

Someone misunderstood.

Someone who knew what he wanted from life and from his future.

I believed you.

Maybe because I wanted to.

Thinking about it now, I realize I fell in love with a version of you that never really existed.

I fell in love with the facade you painted.

The potential.

The person I thought you could be.

And maybe that was my mistake—not loving you, but building a future around the version of you I hoped would stay.

I revolved my life around you.

My plans. My future. My expectations. My heart.

And somewhere along the way, I started making everything about you.

But I don't want this story to end with anger.

Because despite everything, I am grateful I met you.

Not because you hurt me.

Not because I deserved the way things ended.

But because something happened inside of me while loving you.

I felt again.

After my mother and brother died in 2023, there was a part of me that went quiet.

I didn't feel much of anything.

I was surviving.

And then I met you.

I loved you.

And when it ended, I hurt.

Deeply.

At first, I thought that pain was proof that I had lost something I couldn't live without.

Now, I think it was proof of something else.

That I was still here.

That I could still love.

That I could still feel.

That somewhere beneath everything I had survived, there was still a version of me capable of opening her heart to another person.

You reminded me that I was human.

And pain, as cruel as it can be, has a way of reminding us that we are alive.

I don't know if you were meant to stay.

Maybe you were only meant to be a season.

Half my winter.

Half my spring.

A season that hurt.

A season that changed me.

A season that taught me what I will and will not accept.

A season that taught me that loving someone should never require me to abandon myself.

And maybe that's what I'll remember most.

Not how you left.

Not the unanswered messages.

Not the birthday that became a goodbye.

But the girl I was when I met you, and the woman I became after you.

For that, I will always be grateful.

So, goodbye to the season of you.

I don't regret loving you.

I don't regret letting you in.

And I don't regret the lessons.

Because even though you were never meant to be my forever, you were still a chapter I was meant to live.

And for a little while, you made me feel something I thought I had lost forever.

I was enchanted to meet you.

And maybe, someday, I'll be enchanted to meet myself again, too.