You Were Right. We Are Not Compatible.

A Letter to the Man Who Couldn’t Love Me Back

You’re right.

It is pointless to hold onto an incompatible partner just because it feels so warm and familiar in your arms—and out of fear of being single all over again.

You told me that you’re not in love with me anymore, this second time around when you attempted to come back to me and broke up all over again.

The truth is, I had never stopped loving you. So I gave you a second chance, without playing any games, because I’ve never been very good at playing games in the first place. And once, you told me that you loved that about me. But now, the very fact that I didn’t play games seems to have brought me to the point where you lost interest, as if I wasn’t a challenge anymore.

I welcomed you with open arms… only for you to reject me with both of yours a second time.

So I surrender. You’re right. I have to accept the hard truth: we are not compatible.

And you're far from the vision I hold for my husband, the father of my child.

My husband will meet me with tenderness, not judgment. He will embrace the softness of my feminine nature, my moments of weakness, my indecision, my fears, my insecurities, without taking them personally, without making it mean something about him. He will witness me. He will open his arms, hold me, and simply let me cry and speak when life gets heavy. He will cherish my sensitivity, not see it as a burden, but as a gift I bring into this life.

My husband will sometimes speak to me about his insecurities and struggles, because he knows that’s what creates emotional intimacy. And my husband will never, ever, ask me, “What’s wrong with you for being single at your age?”, because he’s intelligent and conscious enough to understand that some things are beyond my control. Some things happen only within God’s timing.

It’s true… I haven’t been very lucky with love.

I’ve loved men beyond measure, men who, at some point, simply stopped being in love with me. Just like you did.

I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know why, for a man, love is a fleeting feeling, but for a woman, love is a choice. I guess romantic love is the one place where roles are reversed, where men allow themselves to feel… but when they no longer feel it, they deflect.

Just like you did.

It’s painful to watch so many parts of me, my sensitivity, my creativity, my essence, be rejected by the man I once loved… while you demanded unconditional acceptance for yourself.

I remember repeating that to you over the phone, and you denied it.

I know I have this extra sensitivity — to sounds, to light, to touch. I know I cry during movies. And I remember how that would trigger you. We watched a movie together when you came back, and as you saw me feeling the pain of the actors, you asked, “Will that trigger you again?” You said it with that look in your eyes, the look that told me it would be a bother. I felt shame. I swallowed it. I told myself, “something is wrong with you for feeling so much during a simple fictional movie.”

I also felt your shame when you looked at me during that group gathering. I can’t explain why I tend to fall into this trance-like state when I’m surrounded by too many people, when my eyes start closing, when I dissociate. But I know it’s my nervous system, it gets overstimulated. You perceived it as a flaw, maybe even a handicap. But it doesn’t make me less lovable.

My future husband will accept this part of me. He will understand, not judge. Because his heart is open.

It hurt to see how disinterested you were in my gift for writing, too. My husband — the one meant for me — will want to read every word I write. He’ll be proud. He’ll tell everyone, “My wife is a talented writer.” I will feel his encouragement, his support, his admiration and it will fuel me.

So yes, you’re right.

It is pointless to hold onto a relationship that feels incompatible, one that doesn’t flow, doesn’t feel safe, doesn’t feel easy. A relationship where everything I say or do triggers a reaction in you.

I find myself imagining the kind of woman you’ll marry one day. And like an old reflex, I slip back into the habit I’ve carried since childhood, comparing myself to other women, like my mother taught me to. The others were always better. Smarter. Less… “abnormal.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that you treated me the exact same way my mother did.

So I surrender. I accept. You were right: we are not compatible.

And there is nothing left for me to do about it.