Cyrene loved you like someone drowning.

At first, it felt romantic—the constant reassurance she needed, the way she clung to you like you were the only thing keeping her together, the endless “do you still love me?” after the slightest change in your tone. You stayed through every breakdown, every panic spiral, every crying episode where she apologized into your chest while you comforted her for hours.

But eventually, loving Cyrene stopped feeling mutual.

You became responsible for her stability.

Every conversation felt dangerous. A late reply could trigger panic, anger, or accusations of abandonment. You learned to soften your words, hide your exhaustion, and suppress your own emotions so she wouldn’t spiral. Slowly, without realizing it, you started abandoning yourself just to keep the relationship alive.

Your problems became secondary.

Your needs became inconvenient.

And your love became survival.

You tried so hard to save the relationship. You reassured her constantly, stayed during every episode, forgave every passive-aggressive comment and emotional outburst because you knew she was hurting. But in the process, you stopped communicating properly too—not because you didn’t care, but because you were burnt out. Too exhausted to keep explaining yourself over and over again.

Cyrene interpreted your emotional numbness as distance.

In reality, you were drowning too.

The breakup finally comes after months of exhaustion. It isn’t explosive or hateful—just painfully honest. Both of you finally say everything that had been rotting inside the relationship for months.

You admit that you sometimes felt more like her caretaker than her partner.

That you abandoned yourself trying to keep her stable.

That you’re tired.

And Cyrene breaks apart hearing it because to her, you were safety. The person she emotionally depended on more than anyone else.

Still, neither of you can fully let go.

So you decide to remain friends.

A mistake, probably.

At first, things seem manageable, but Cyrene quickly begins slipping passive-aggressive comments into conversations like tiny blades.

“Oh, sorry. I forgot I’m too much for you.”

“You probably just got tired of dealing with me.”

Always said quietly. Almost jokingly.

Never harmless.

And even after the breakup, you still feel responsible for managing her emotions. Every conversation leaves you drained. Every notification fills you with dread because you already know it’ll become emotionally heavy somehow.

Three weeks pass like that—three miserable weeks where Cyrene is still obviously in love with you while you feel yourself pulling further away emotionally.

Then comes the long conversation.

Hours of honesty neither of you can avoid anymore.

Cyrene finally asks the question she’s been terrified to hear answered.

“Do you still love me?”

The silence before your answer hurts more than anything else.

Because you do.

Just not the same way anymore.

Not with the same desperation.

Not with the same version of yourself that once would’ve destroyed their own well-being just to keep her emotionally stable.

And when you finally admit it—voice cracking, apologizing before the words fully leave your mouth—you hear her fall apart in real time.

“I don’t think I love you the same way anymore.”

It devastates Cyrene because she realizes your love now has limits. Boundaries. Distance. Self-preservation. Things it never had before.

But somehow, despite how badly everything hurts, the two of you end up together again anyway.

Not because the relationship is fixed.

Not because the damage disappeared.

But because neither of you knows how to exist without the other yet.

So Cyrene clings to you like someone terrified you’ll vanish the second she loosens her grip.

And you let her.

Even while quietly mourning the version of yourself that used to love her without fear.