You called it peace.

Some people don’t hold onto you out of love.

They hold onto you because you’re the calm in a storm they secretly enjoy.

They don’t want peace—they want a witness.

A safe, steady witness who won’t flinch while they self-destruct in slow motion.

Someone to stand in the doorway, soaked and loyal, holding out an umbrella while they keep dancing in the lightning, claiming they’re “just working through things.”

And here you come—walking into their life like a deep exhale.

No drama.

No manipulation.

No emotional booby traps.

Just honesty, consistency, and love without a leash.

And instead of meeting you with that same energy, they tether you.

Not because they’re ready to grow.

Not because they value you the way you deserve.

But because they know you are the peace they refuse to cultivate on their own.

They tether you because they need the stability you bring. The anchor. The softness.

The quiet loyalty that doesn’t flinch under pressure.

They crave that ride-or-die energy you carry so naturally—something in them longs for that kind of consistency, even though they can never give it in return.

Not because they always don’t want to—though, yeah, sometimes they just don’t.

But more often?

It’s because they can’t.

They are so chronically unbalanced, so wrapped in their own emotional chaos, so disoriented by their own unhealed wounds, that they cannot hold steady long enough to match what you give.

Being near you feels like safety—but staying with you requires emotional sobriety.

It demands presence, maturity, and honesty.

And they just can’t hold it.

They say they want peace…

But they don’t really know peace.

Not the kind that comes from someone truly having your back.

Not the kind where two people become sanctuary for each other—no performance, no manipulation, just a safe place to land.

And here’s the kicker: you can’t have that kind of peace alone.

You can’t be the sanctuary all by yourself.

Relationships don’t work that way.

They’re like engagement rings.

Sometimes you’re the setting—strong, holding everything together.

Sometimes you’re the diamond—shining under pressure, the centerpiece.

But it only means something when both are working together.

A setting on its own? Just a scrap of metal.

A diamond alone? Still just carbon trying to survive.

And sometimes?

Sometimes, you find out the whole thing was just cubic zirconia.

Sparkly on the outside.

Weightless underneath.

Built to imitate connection but never designed to last.

And let’s not forget:

The rules of being the diamond or the setting can change at any moment.

Some seasons, you’re the one being held.

Other seasons, you’re the one doing the holding.

It’s never fixed. It’s fluid.

The beauty is in the balance—and the willingness to shift when love asks for it.

And still, you stayed.

You held the weight.

You believed the promise.

You gave love like it could fix what only self-work could.

You cooked the meals, held space, bent your boundaries, edited your needs into whispers.

And they thanked you by loving strangers louder than they ever loved you.

They buried themselves in social media—flirting, posting, scrolling, responding with fire emojis and half-intimate banter—performing connection for people who don’t even know their middle name.

You, sitting across from them in silence, became background noise to their search for attention.

It wasn’t just disrespectful.

It was betrayal—ongoing, quiet, and cruel.

Because that constant pull toward validation kept them emotionally tethered to everyone but you.

And they’d defend it with phrases like, “It’s just the internet,” or “You’re overthinking it,” while ignoring the fact that your heart had been starving for actual intimacy.

Not performative.

Not public.

Just present.

And just because someone is sitting in the same room as you doesn’t mean they’re present.

Get that straight right now.

Presence is a deep connection.

It’s an intentional action.

It’s showing up on purpose.

Otherwise?

They’re not “with” you.

They’re just another body in the room ignoring someone they promised to love.

They breadcrumbed you with “I love you”s and just enough gestures to keep your hope on life support.

They’d hold your hand in public.

Send a “thinking of you” text when their guilt flared.

Cook dinner one night and disappear into their phone the next.

They cheat emotionally. Often.

Physically? Sometimes.

But spiritually? Every time.

Because they withhold what matters most: their presence.

Their truth.

Their willingness to grow past whatever story they’re stuck inside.

They can’t stay in real relationships because eventually they wear everyone out.

Peace exhausts them.

Stability bores them.

They don’t know how to receive love without running it through the shredder of their own chaos.

And the wildest part?

They say all the right things.

“I love you.”

“You’re the only one who really gets me.”

“Don’t give up on me.”

“You’re my person.”

But the words never find a heartbeat.

They just float. Unanchored. Rehearsed.

Because they know how to sound like love without being love.

They don’t follow up with action.

They don’t rebuild trust.

They don’t ask what your silence means, or why your light’s dimmer than it used to be.

And when you finally break—when you put your rain boots away and step out of their storm for good—they act surprised.

Confused.

As if love should survive on promises alone.

But here’s what they’ll never understand:

You didn’t leave because you stopped loving them.

You left because they never truly tried to love you back.

They equate their loneliness to peace because they’ve never experienced real, deep love.

The kind that holds a mirror up.

The kind that asks for accountability.

The kind that says, “I’m not going to chase you—but I am worth staying for.”

They say they want real, but they don’t want the work that comes with it.

They want you all-in, while they stay half-out.

They want the comfort of your devotion without the discomfort of change.

And eventually… you stop bleeding for people who never learned how to stop cutting.

You reclaim your worth.

You protect your energy.

You stop showing up for someone who never fully did.

Because love isn’t supposed to feel like begging.

It’s not supposed to feel like exhaustion.

It’s not supposed to feel like you’re always trying to convince someone you’re enough.

You are the peace.

And yes, they left you in pieces.

But this time? You’re the one walking away.

No storm.

No scene.

No dramatic goodbye.

Just silence.

And the sound of your own healing.

Because real peace?

It doesn’t live in chaos.

It doesn’t need convincing.

And it sure as hell doesn’t scroll past the one person who showed up.

And let’s be clear—

Peace doesn’t mean loneliness.

You can and should have peace in a relationship.

Not the lonely kind. Not the silence-that-aches kind.

But the kind that’s built from mutual effort.

Peace that’s held by trust, grown through communication, and strengthened by showing up for each other—every single day.

Because love and peace are not opposites.

They are teammates.

And real love?

It feels like coming home to someone who built that home with you.

Loving fully means risking everything—your heart, your hope, your healing.

It means showing up when it’s uncomfortable, staying when it’s easier to scroll away, and giving someone the parts of you that aren’t polished yet.

It means heartbreak is always possible—and choosing it anyway.

Some days you’re the big spoon.

Some days you’re the little spoon.

You hold. You’re held. You switch without keeping score.

Because that’s what partnership looks like—mutual, sacred, alive.

But be careful when there are other spoons stirring the pot.

Because no matter how safe the peace feels between you,

it won’t last if one person keeps reaching for attention outside the kitchen

while the other is busy setting the table inside the home you’re building.