I Was Her Waiting Room

A quiet confusion lived inside me.

For years, I could not understand it.

I thought being needed meant being loved.

I thought being the person she came to

meant I had a place in her heart.

I gave without counting.

My time, my patience, my understanding.

I became the person she could talk to

when the world felt too heavy.

I listened to her fears,

held her sadness,

and stayed when she needed someone.

I believed those moments meant something.

I thought every deep conversation,

every late-night confession,

every piece of herself she shared with me

was bringing us closer.

But slowly, I realised something painful.

Maybe I was not the person she was choosing.

Maybe I was only the person she needed

when she felt lost.

She came to me when loneliness hurt,

when she needed comfort,

when she needed someone who would understand.

And when she felt better,

when the storm inside her became quiet,

I became distant again.

The hardest part was not that she left.

It was knowing that I had opened my heart

to someone who never stopped to ask

how much I was carrying too.

I gave her a safe place,

but I forgot that I also needed one.

I kept proving my care

by how much I could endure.

I thought if I stayed patient enough,

if I understood enough,

if I loved enough,

one day I would become her choice.

But love should not feel like waiting

for someone to finally see you.

I was there when she needed comfort.

I was there when she needed someone.

But when someone she truly wanted appeared,

everything changed.

With them, she was careful.

She protected what they had.

With me, she was certain I would always stay.

That difference hurt the most.

Because I finally understood:

I was not the destination.

I was the waiting room.

And perhaps the hardest lesson I learned is this,

sometimes being someone's safe place

does not mean they want to build a home with you.

By

Sanji-Paul Arvind