And every time it happened, my mind rushed in to smooth it over. He didn’t mean it like that. You probably caught him at a bad time. Don’t ruin the night. Just let it go.

I invested a lot of energy to accommodate his emotions. He was always good at explaining them—why he snapped, why he shut down. He made it all sound reasonable, but I caught him at the wrong moment. He wasn’t cruel. Just convincing. Slowly, I started to believe I was the one overreacting.

Because anytime I did try to bring something up (even gently), it somehow ended with me apologizing. For misreading him. For starting a fight. For killing the vibe. For making things heavier than necessary.

It started to feel like I was the one making our relationship difficult. Like my pain was an inconvenience. Something that kept getting in the way of us having a good time.

And I believed it. I truly believed it.

One afternoon, after another quiet argument that left me feeling small and scrambling to “keep the peace,” I caught myself mid-thought, asking, “What did he need from me right now?” And right after that, for the first time, another question followed: But…what do I need?

I couldn’t answer it.

That silence told me everything.

I felt so empty, like I was holding things in, scared that if I annoyed him too much, he’d leave me. I was trying everything not to lose him, but I didn’t even realize I was already losing myself.

That’s when I realized it was not only about how he treated me, but also about how I treated myself.

Now, I’m learning to check in with myself before I smooth things over. I’m learning that being loved should never come at a cost. Maybe that’s what healing is: remembering you belong to yourself first.

I stopped noticing the small things disappearing, my routines, my preferences, the quiet ways I carved out space for myself.It wasn’t that he asked me to give them up; I simply… handed them over, piece by piece, not because I had to, but because I didn’t know how not to.

A decade went by like that.

Ten years passed, and there wasn’t a clear line where I ended and he began, just this blur I thought was love. Everything I did started with a ‘we’; I forgot there used to be a ‘me.’ I knew his moods better than my own. I could even tell what kind of day it would be by the way he closed the silverware drawer. If it slammed, I’d tread more lightly. If it slid gently, I’d exhale. I knew when to be quiet, when to make him laugh, and when to give him space.

When he left, it wasn’t dramatic at all. It was merely… quiet. It felt as if the world had gone mute. I spent three days in bed, neither crying nor sleeping, just remaining still. I recall wondering, ‘What now?’

It felt as if someone had erased the outline of my life.

For weeks, I wandered through my apartment like a guest in someone else’s space. I didn’t know what kind of day I wanted to experience because, for so long, my days were merely reactions to his. I had all this time and no idea what to do with it. It was as if I’d been waiting for permission to exist. I looked around my apartment and saw pieces of him everywhere, yet almost nothing that felt like me. I kept preparing the meals he liked, without even thinking about it. I realized I didn’t even know what my comfort food was. That was the most disorienting part, realizing how completely I’d lost track of myself.

Not because I didn’t care about myself, but because I had trained myself to care more about him. His needs. His comfort. His dreams.

It wasn’t anger I felt; it was grief. But not just for the relationship, also for the version of myself I never got to know thoroughly.

People kept telling me I was free now. That I could do anything, be anyone. But I didn’t feel free. Instead, I felt like a stranger in my own skin. I wasn’t mourning the love. I was mourning the years I hadn’t built a life of my own. The freedom they spoke of didn’t feel like a clean slate. It felt like work, emotional, awkward, necessary work.

But beneath it all was this quiet knowing: for the first time, I was building something that belonged to me. So I began where I was, with mornings that were mine. A purposeless walk. A playlist that didn’t remind me of anyone. Little things, but they mattered. I wasn’t just piecing myself back together; I was meeting myself for the very first time. And even though I didn’t have everything figured out, I finally had myself. Somehow, that felt more like freedom than anything I’d ever known.

I would do anything for her, and over time, she came to understand this. 

I was young, idealistic, and convinced that devotion was the highest virtue in a relationship. That’s what all the movies taught me: be the nice guy, the dependable one, and everything would work out. I didn’t realize at the time that love without respect or balance can become a trap.

The warning signs appeared subtly at first. She asked where I was whenever I went out with my friends, became upset when she didn’t get her way, and asked that I give up my hobbies so we could spend more time together, claiming it would be romantic. 

But the red flags grew into a more horrific hue as years went on. Before long, she criticized everything I said, demanded to read my text messages, and questioned me each time I sent an email. She called me at work to ensure I was there and accused me of flirting with a waitress because, in her opinion, I had left a tip that was too high. 

She was like a drug, addicting and thrilling, but something that also came with regret and remorse. I tried to reassure her of my faithfulness, establish boundaries, and apologize for upsetting her. Mostly, I wanted to convince myself that she would change. I told myself that I was being loyal, that real men don’t walk away; they fight for the people they love. But I didn’t realize that fighting for someone shouldn’t mean fighting against yourself.

She didn’t change, of course, and the ground eventually became covered with eggshells. I couldn’t walk anywhere without stepping on one; all I could do was walk away.

Leaving wasn’t easy. It never is. There is no medal for walking out of a toxic situation, no parade. However, the peace I felt afterward told me everything I needed to know.

What I’ve Learned

I learned two main things from this experience. I realized that even minor warning signs are still warnings, relationship omens suggesting someone is mistreating you, taking advantage of you, or compromising your boundaries. You can ignore these warnings, but they rarely disappear; they tend to grow louder as the partnership progresses.

The other thing I learned is possibly the most brutal truth about relationships: No matter how much you love someone, you can’t change them; only they can change themselves. If it becomes clear that they’re unable or unwilling to change, you have no choice but to seek happiness elsewhere.

As men, we are often taught to endure, to remain silent, and to protect others at the expense of ourselves. However, true strength lies in knowing when to walk away and having the courage to start over.

others through writing or music, Riza and Pete stuck together like a two-in-one promotional duo. They were partners in every school activity, including Alternative Learning Activities, recollections, and outings. If Pete wasn’t going, then neither was Riza, and vice versa. It wasn’t just about convenience; it was a bond that felt unbreakable.

When the pandemic hit, most of us naturally drifted apart, focusing on our personal lives and adjusting to the new normal. But not them. If anything, they grew closer. Riza told us that Pete relied on her heavily, not just academically but emotionally. He depended on her to help him navigate online classes, and as one of the few friends who lived within reach, though still an hour apart, she became his lifeline. They were so close that they ultimately became one person.

Pete and Riza shared the same ideologies, likes, and dislikes, and did everything together. It was difficult to separate them in our minds because they were not just together; they were entwined. I don’t know how to explain it, but their closeness seemed far outside the boundaries of a typical friendship. Riza accompanied Pete to his appointments, and once, she even took him to her nipple piercing session because he was the only one she felt she could trust and who was nearby. When Pete was on the verge of getting kicked out of school, Riza stood by him, helping him find his footing again.

At some point, Riza developed feelings for Pete. It wasn’t surprising. Spending almost every day together, sharing both highs and lows, it was bound to blur the lines. She had an obvious crush on him, and while she never openly confessed, we could tell. Pete, on the other hand, didn’t feel the same. It made him visibly uncomfortable that she had grown attached to him. Yes, he was dependent on her, but not in a romantic way. Still, he never directly turned her down, and so their half friendship with romantic undertones continued. Every time Pete wanted distance, Riza hung on a little tighter, and the more she did, the further away he tried to get. He even became silent.

Looking back, it’s clear now: their friendship had become enmeshed. Riza’s identity started to blend into Pete’s. She deferred to him in almost every decision. She leaned on him emotionally to the point that her well-being depended on his presence. Pete became her constant in a life full of academic stress and emotional uncertainty, and Riza became Pete’s constant, too. However, Pete was not as enmeshed as Riza, and it’s obvious that her enmeshment was more romantic, intertwined with friendship.

Two years after the pandemic, we were finally back in school for our senior year. It felt like a fresh start for everyone. But for Riza and Pete, things picked up exactly where they left off. They had lunch together, worked on projects together, and even spent after-school hours in each other’s company. It seemed like nothing had changed. There were no signs of arguments, no hints that something was about to break.

Then February came, just a few months before graduation. That day is burned into my memory. The classroom was full, but I only saw one thing: Riza, walking in with no makeup, messy hair, and tear-streaked cheeks. If there was one thing Riza never skipped, it was her routine. She was always polished, always composed. Seeing her like that broke something in me, too.

She ran to me and broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. I wrapped my arms around her and asked, “What happened, Riz? You seem different today.” She buried her face into my shoulder and whispered through her tears, “He doesn’t want to talk to me anymore… I… I just don’t know what happened.”

Pete had suddenly cut her off, with no explanation or warning. Sixty people in the classroom seemed to vanish into the background as she cried and clung to me. Over the next few days, she kept crying on and off. She would recall their memories, replay their conversations, and scroll through old photos endlessly. She tried to reach out, but he never responded. The loss of her entangled friendship impacted her physical and mental health. Riza’s appetite faded, she lost weight, and her performance in school slipped. Her appearance changed. Her laughter, once loud and infectious, was now a rare occurrence. It was as if she had lost a part of herself when he wasn’t in her life. Riza had built so much of her life around Pete that when he walked away, she had nothing stable to hold on to.

Our friends did all they could to help her.  We took her on trips, visited islands and tourist spots, and introduced her to new people. We were able to visit all the provinces in our region. We talked more and even had better relationships with our other friends. We reminded her of just how special she is and that she doesn’t need anyone to feel whole. We encouraged her to develop new interests and make more friends. We tried to encourage her to do more things that would instill confidence in herself, rather than relying on someone else. It was hard, and we had to constantly remind ourselves that we couldn’t fill the role that Pete had. No one could or should. Riza had to find herself, and we couldn’t do it for her.

Slowly, she began to smile again. But even then, she’d still bring up Pete, sometimes jokingly, sometimes wistfully. We all drifted apart after high school, each of us going our own way in college. Pete, too, stayed away from the group, avoiding us as much as he avoided her.

Now, two years later, things have changed. Pete occasionally joins our hangouts again, but only if Riza isn’t there. The wound between them was never addressed, never healed. But Riza? She’s grown up so much. She’s strong and independent. She has changed. That friendship breakup hurt more than any romantic breakup she’s ever had. They were more than just friends; they were each other’s entire world. And when that world collapsed, it took a long time to rebuild herself. But she did. With help, with patience, with time, she did.

Riza is now in a new relationship with herself. She learned how to focus on herself and her needs. She is in college and has come out of her shell. She has even joined some pageants. Although we were there to support her and guide her, we had to give her time to heal. Even though we may not be there physically sometimes, she finally understood and loved us, but in a supportive, not enmeshed way.  As her friends, we were always behind her and encouraging her to find herself. Riza no longer relies on anyone for her happiness. She is in love with herself. Her health has improved, her spark has returned, and she’s finally learned to define herself outside of someone else.

This whole experience taught me and all of us that it’s okay to let go of someone who doesn’t value us equally. No matter how deeply we care, no matter how long the history, our lives shouldn’t revolve around one person. Our lives depend on our choices… on who we become, even after losing someone we thought we couldn’t live without. 

It wasn’t just difficult; it was emotionally disorienting. I was exhausted—tired of walking on eggshells, of being constantly manipulated, of questioning my own reality. More than anything, I was tired of carrying the guilt for wanting distance from someone who had caused so much harm. That pregnancy became a turning point. I needed to see clearly. I needed proof—not to convince anyone else, but to finally free myself from the quiet, constant pressure to fix what had always been broken.

Then one day, it happened. She started telling a story, laughing almost smugly as she remembered her own C-section. But it wasn’t just her experience she was talking about—it was the woman next to her, someone who had also undergone the same surgery. The woman next to her was in visible, excruciating pain—crying, struggling to walk, needing support to move. My mother recounted it like a joke. She rolled her eyes, calling the woman dramatic, weak, and annoying. She mocked her pain as if it were a performance, not real suffering. And something in me snapped. My voice went sharp, high-pitched. I was shaking, visibly disturbed. I wasn’t just angry—I was horrified. Horrified by her lack of empathy, by how cold and arrogant she was about another woman’s agony. And the worst part? She smirked. She watched me unravel with a quiet satisfaction, like she had finally found the exact nerve she’d been aiming for all along.

In that moment, I saw everything. I saw how she had controlled my emotions for years—not because she was right, but because I didn’t know how to protect myself from her.

That day, I didn’t just realize who she was. I realized I needed to understand my own emotional patterns if I ever wanted to stop reacting to her. I wasn’t just triggered, I was unprepared. I had no regulation, no awareness, just a raw, overwhelming feeling. That’s when it became clear: this wasn’t about her anymore. This was about me finally learning to take emotional responsibility, not blame, but ownership.

I had never been taught how to care for myself emotionally. I wasn’t just reactive—I was emotionally unaware. And that kind of self-neglect was costing me peace. It wasn’t enough to know she was unhealthy. I needed to be healthy enough not to be destroyed by her.

That’s where this journey began: not just to protect my energy, but to reclaim my emotional life. To respond instead of react. To feel without being consumed. To become emotionally safe, not just for my future child, but for myself.