17/10/2024
"She’s lucky to have been loved and treated by a better version of you."
There’s a bittersweet truth that lingers in that statement. It’s the kind of truth that lives quietly inside of you, coming to the surface when you're alone with your thoughts, when the world is asleep, and the only sound you hear is the rhythm of your own heartbeat. It’s a truth that carries both pride and sorrow, wrapped in the complex layers of self-reflection and growth.
The better version of you. The person you had to become after mistakes were made, after love was lost, and after the painful reckoning with the parts of yourself that weren't ready for her when she needed you most. Maybe you thought you were ready at the time, but hindsight is a cruel mirror. You see the cracks you didn’t notice then. The times when you let your ego speak louder than your heart. The moments you withdrew instead of opening up, when you protected yourself instead of protecting her.
She didn’t have the version of you who finally learned what love really meant. She had the you who was still figuring it out, still wrestling with old wounds and insecurities that hadn’t yet healed. She had the you who was strong, yes, but not as steady. Loving, yes, but not as patient. Present, yes, but sometimes only halfway.
But now, you are different. You’ve grown into someone better—not perfect, but more understanding, more self-aware. You’ve learned that love isn’t about winning arguments or being right. It’s about listening, really listening, even when it’s hard. It’s about staying even when you’re scared, about giving even when you’re tired, and about being kind even when your own pain tempts you to be sharp. She made you better without ever knowing it. You became who you are because of her, and in a strange way, that’s a kind of love that lives on, long after everything else has faded.
Still, there’s a sadness in knowing she’ll never get to experience this better version of you. She’s gone, her path diverging from yours, and you’ve come to peace with that—mostly. But sometimes, you wonder. You wonder if she ever thinks of you, if she would recognize you now, if she would see the change and be proud. You wonder if the better you could have made her stay.
She’s lucky, in a way, though it feels odd to say it. She was loved by you, and she helped shape the person you became, even if she never got to fully witness that transformation. She’s lucky to have seen the beginning of your evolution, to have been the reason for so much of it. But you know, deep down, that this version of you—the one who finally understands how to love deeply and fully—is something that will be shared with someone else.
And maybe that’s the hardest part. Knowing you’re better now, but for someone who isn’t her. Knowing that this love, this new version of yourself, is a gift you can no longer give to the person who inspired it in the first place. It’s a different kind of loss, but it’s also a quiet, unspoken hope. Hope that you’ll keep growing. Hope that the next time love comes, you’ll be ready for it in ways you weren’t before. And hope, too, that she finds someone who can love her the way you wish you had.
But for now, you hold this better version of yourself close, a quiet reminder of where you’ve been, and where you’re going.
