Thought I Was a Home, But I’m Just a Shelter for Everyone

 

# **Thought I Was a Home, But I’m Just a Shelter for Everyone**  

I don’t know why I even thought I could be something more. I really believed I was a home—yours. That no matter what, you’d stay. But I was wrong. I was never a home. I was just a shelter.  

People come to me when they’re hurt, when they’re lost, when they have nowhere else to go. They find warmth, comfort, and understanding. And then, when they’re okay again, they leave. Every single time. And now, so have you.  

I told myself you were different. That even if the world changed, even if things got hard, you’d still be here. But you’re not. And I don’t even blame you. Maybe I was always meant to be temporary. Maybe I was only ever a place for you to rest until you could move forward without me.  

I hate this feeling—this emptiness you left behind. I keep telling myself to be strong, to accept it, to let go. But how do I let go of something that still lives in me? How do I move on when every part of me is still waiting for you to come back?