Birdy and Jianhan’s last moments reminded me of something I try not to think about too often — the story I never got to live out fully. Not a relationship, exactly. More of a situationship. But the kind where the feelings were real, maybe even more real than in anything labeled “official.” I truly did love her. But I could never bring myself to show it the way I wanted to. Not because she wasn’t worth it — she was everything — but because of the shame I carried. Shame that was handed to me by my upbringing, by my religion, by years of internalized homophobia that wrapped itself around me like chains I couldn’t break. I wanted to love her the way she deserved to be loved, openly and without fear. But instead, I became distant. Harsh, even. I hurt her. Not because I stopped caring — but because I cared too much, and didn’t know what to do with that love when I was told it was wrong. She, on the other hand, was so different from me. From the moment I met her, I could tell. Everyone knew she was gay, and she didn’t hide it. She didn’t shrink herself. Her parents accepted her, her friends embraced her. She lived out loud in a way I had only ever dared to imagine in the quiet corners of my mind. But her pride in who she was — that wasn’t the only reason I fell for her. It was the way she saw people. The way she saw me. She was kind in a way that felt rare. Not the performative, surface-level kind, but the real kind — the kind that makes you feel like you can breathe again after holding it in for too long. She was trustworthy, warm, and fiercely understanding. She listened, really listened. And of course, she was beautiful. Not just physically — though yes, god, she was gorgeous — but in that effortless way that came from being deeply, unapologetically herself. We liked each other. We admitted it. There were moments that felt like more than just sparks — they felt like home. I knew she wanted to be with me. Part of me wanted that too, more than anything. But I couldn’t do it. I kept thinking about the shame, about what it would mean to be with her. How people would look at me. What my family would say. What God would think. I told myself I couldn’t — that I had to try to be “normal,” that I had to start liking boys, that I could maybe force myself into a life that looked acceptable. And so I did the only thing I could think to do: I distanced myself. I pushed her away. I hurt her again. We stopped talking. She respected that. She let me go — maybe she knew I needed space, or maybe she was tired of hoping I’d change my mind. I tried to move on. Tried to be the version of myself that people would approve of. But even in silence, she stayed with me. In dreams. In songs. In late-night thoughts I tried to suppress. One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I texted her. I told her I missed her. It was 2 a.m., and I didn’t expect her to reply. But she did. Just like always, she came back with understanding, with softness. And for a moment, it felt like maybe we could find our way back to each other. But we couldn’t. The same fear was still there. The shame hadn’t gone away. And I still wasn’t ready. Now, she’s with someone else. And I know — I know — that I shouldn’t feel bitter or angry or jealous. She deserves happiness. She deserves someone who can love her without shame, without fear. I wasn’t that person, not then. But it still hurts. #yournameengravedherein #wlw #lgbtq #internalizedhompohobia #yournameengravedhereinedit #fypage #writing #fyp #fypシ - @ii.elia