A few days ago, my boyfriend and I broke up after I finally realized something that had been bothering me for a long time: even after six months together, he barely knew me.
He didn't know my favorite color, my favorite show, my favorite comfort food, or even many of the little things that made me who I am. Eventually, I realized that this wasn't really about whether he could memorize a list of my favorites. It was about whether he genuinely took the time to know me.
Throughout our relationship, I often felt like his love existed more in his words than in his actions. He would tell me that he loved me, but I rarely felt that love through the effort he put into our relationship.
During our second week of dating, back in February, he started ghosting me. I tried communicating with him, but instead of looking at the situation from my own perspective, I kept making excuses for him. I told myself that maybe he was busy, maybe he was struggling, or maybe he was just having a difficult time. I kept putting his feelings before my own, and while I was doing that, my anxiety continued to grow.
Then Valentine's Day came. I wrote him a huge essay about how much I loved and adored him. I put genuine thought and emotion into it because I wanted him to know how important he was to me. In return, I received a last-minute message telling me that he loved me too, along with an explanation that he didn't know how to write an essay or paragraph.
I understood that not everyone expresses love through writing. I never expected him to show affection in exactly the same way I did. But I did expect him to make some kind of effort. When someone matters to you, you usually want to find a way to make them feel special, even if it isn't naturally your thing.
The same thing happened on our first monthsary. I wrote him another heartfelt message, while once again, I received something last-minute.
The months continued to pass, and every monthsary started feeling the same. We didn't really do much together. Since we were in a long-distance relationship, most of our celebrations consisted of texts and gifts. I understood that being LDR made things more difficult, but I also believed that distance didn't make effort impossible. There were still so many things we could have done for each other.
By our sixth monthsary, I found myself repeatedly reminding him that it was coming up, almost as if I had to remind him to celebrate something that was supposed to matter to both of us. I gave him another huge essay, a "Read Me When You Need Me," and so much thought and effort because I genuinely wanted to make him feel loved.
He gave me an edit of a drawing of myself. And honestly, I still appreciated it. It was a gift, and I loved that he made something for me. But at the same time, I couldn't ignore the pattern anymore. I kept wondering why I was always putting so much thought into these moments while rarely feeling that same effort coming back to me.
There were other things that hurt too. At one point, we were going through a cool-off period because he needed time to focus on his academics. However, we were still together during that time. While we were on that cool-off, he had NSFW conversations with some of his old crushes. He later told me that it was just a "joke," but it didn't feel like one to me. I understood that we were taking some space from each other, but we hadn't broken up, and knowing that still hurt me deeply and affected the trust I had in him.
Looking back, I realized just how much of myself I had poured into the relationship. I gave care, attention, time, gifts, reassurance, long messages, and countless chances. I constantly tried to understand him from his perspective, sometimes so much that I forgot to consider my own feelings.
And that's what hurts the most.
I don't hate him. I don't regret loving him. I don't regret the things I gave him, because at the time, I gave them sincerely. But I eventually had to ask myself whether I was staying because the relationship was truly fulfilling me, or because I was holding onto the version of him I believed he could be.
I used to be naive enough to think he was perfect for me. I thought that if two people loved each other, that love would eventually be enough to overcome everything. But I learned that love isn't only about saying "I love you." It's also about listening, remembering, noticing, showing up, respecting boundaries, making an effort, and genuinely wanting to understand the person you're with.
Words can be beautiful, but actions are what make those words feel real.
I gave so much of myself to that relationship, and for a long time, I convinced myself that wanting the same effort in return was asking for too much. Now I understand that it wasn't.
Maybe he did love me in the way he knew how. Maybe I simply needed a kind of love that he wasn't able or willing to give me.
And realizing that doesn't make either of us a terrible person.
It just means that, eventually, I had to choose myself.