When we finally managed to have a serious conversation, I discovered that things were more complicated than I had imagined.
Things were not okay.
There were problems.
Worries that had been piling up, overwhelming thoughts, and a difficult period of emotional and psychological struggle.
I was told that time was needed.
Quiet.
Solitude.
Space to make sense of everything without the pressure of another person’s expectations.
I read the messages carefully.
Some of the words frightened me.
This wasn’t simply exhaustion or a bad day.
There was a desperation in certain sentences that I didn’t know how to ease.
A pain so deep that, at times, even getting through another day seemed to have become a struggle.
I couldn’t dismiss those words as an excuse.
And I didn’t want to.
Beyond whatever was happening between us, there was a person who was suffering.
And that suffering deserved to be taken seriously.
I was told there was a desire to keep me away from all those problems.
That perhaps it would be better for me to remember a happy person.
The smile.
The glances along the seafront.
The days when the world had seemed simple.
Not the pain that existed beyond them.
But I couldn’t understand how I was supposed to love only the bright side of someone.
How could I accept all the beautiful words, all the plans, and all the promises, only to be kept at a distance when life became difficult?
I was receiving tenderness and withdrawal in the same conversation.
Words that brought me closer.
Then words that pushed me away.
It felt as though one hand was still holding mine while the other was slowly pushing me away.
I tried to explain how I felt.
That I didn’t want only the happy days.
That a relationship couldn’t be built entirely out of beautiful photographs, video calls, and peaceful nights.
That love didn’t automatically disappear when problems appeared.
That if there was fear, we could talk about it.
If time was needed, I could try to understand.
If everything had become too heavy, there was no need to force a smile just for me.
But sometimes I felt as though my messages were being received differently from how I intended them.
Perhaps they sounded like pressure.
Perhaps like another obligation.
Perhaps like a promise someone no longer felt capable of keeping.
I don’t know.
I didn’t know then.
And I cannot pretend to know now.
The other person’s truth remained on the other side of the screen.
At some point, the language barrier between us stopped being funny.
In the beginning, mistranslations had made us laugh.
We repeated words.
Stumbled over pronunciations.
Turned misunderstandings into jokes.
Now, those same mistakes had become exhausting.
A subtle meaning would get lost.
A question could sound like an accusation.
An attempt to get closer could feel like too much to ask.
And silence could mean absolutely anything.
I missed the days when our biggest problem was finding the correct translation for a word.
Now we could translate every sentence.
And still fail to understand each other.
Eventually, I asked the question I had been carrying inside me for far too long.
“What are we?”
Not because I wanted a beautiful label.
Not because I needed some extraordinary declaration.
But because I no longer knew whether I was allowed to hope.
Whether October still existed for both of us.
Whether our plans were still plans.
Or merely memories of conversations I had believed in too deeply.
The answers I received were full of affection.
But also pain.
Problems.
Fear.
They explained a difficult emotional state.
They didn’t clearly explain where I stood in our story.
During one conversation, words appeared again that, only a few weeks earlier, would have made me smile for hours.
That I was important.
That I meant everything.
I read them.
And waited for the peace they used to bring me.
But that peace never came.
For the first time, words and actions seemed to be moving in different directions.
I didn’t necessarily doubt that those words had been sincere when they were written.
But I no longer knew how to reconcile them with the distance growing between us.
I felt unfair whenever I became upset.
If there was so much suffering, why did I keep asking for explanations?
Why did I need answers at the very moment when there might not have been enough strength to give them?
Then I felt abandoned.
If love was still there, why couldn’t we talk?
Why had it become so difficult to understand what was happening between us?
I spent entire nights caught between those two questions.
One made me feel guilty.
The other made me cry.
And neither gave me an answer.
I began to understand that two things can be true at the same time.
Someone can be going through genuine suffering.
And that person’s silence can deeply hurt someone else.
One does not cancel out the other.
I didn’t have to choose between feeling compassion and admitting that I was hurting.
I could feel both.
I never found the explanation I was searching for.
Instead, I discovered a limit I hadn’t known I had.
I could offer support.
But I couldn’t force anyone to accept it.
I could listen.
But I couldn’t carry, alone, every conversation we should have been having together.
I could love.
But I couldn’t keep a relationship alive on my own when it needed two people.
And perhaps that was the most painful lesson I was beginning to learn.
Sometimes you can love someone with your whole heart and still be unable to reach the place where it hurts.
Not because your love is too small.
But because there are doors that only the person behind them can open.
To be continued…
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