even at my worst, i’m still fucking considerate

 that sentence pisses me off because it’s true.

even when i’m hurt, i’m careful.

even when i’m angry, i’m measured.

even when someone does something unforgivable, i still look for the angle where it makes sense.

i still pause before reacting.

still ask myself if i’m being fair.

still worry about how they’ll feel after they’ve already made it clear they didn’t worry about mine.

i used to think that meant i was kind.

now i think it mostly meant i didn’t want to face what was happening.

because the moment someone hurt me, my brain went to work. not to feel but to defend. to contextualize. to smooth the edges until nothing sharp was left to cut me.

“they didn’t mean it.

they’re going through something.

that’s not who they really are.”

i don’t know who i was trying to convince , them or me?? probably me.

because if i admitted that this was who they were being, i’d have to do something about it. i’d have to let go. and letting go meant admitting i was wrong about them. about us. about how much my patience mattered.

so instead, i stayed. mentally. emotionally. quietly.

i reread conversations like they were crime scenes. i kept looking for evidence that it wasn’t as bad as it felt. that i misunderstood the tone. that i imagined the distance. that my body was being dramatic.

but my body doesn’t exaggerate.

it tightens for a reason.

it goes quiet for a reason.

that confusion i lived in wasn’t love. it was me trying to coexist with something my nervous system had already rejected.

taking people at face value feels brutal when you’re like this. when you can see the why behind everything. when you know how people get shaped. when empathy is your reflex, not your virtue.

but at some point, empathy stops being depth and starts being avoidance.

i don’t think i was too empathetic.

i think i was afraid of the grief that comes with clarity.