It’s been almost a month since I ended, for the second and definitive time, my relationship of more than four years. It has been a very difficult period for me, mainly because I truly loved him. It wasn’t just any story. It was part of my life, my routine, my home, my plans, and who I was throughout all those years. We had many good moments. We took incredible trips, the kind I still remember all the time, moments that still feel so alive inside me. We saw the last KISS concert in Brazil together, my favorite band, and it was simply unforgettable. Those memories hurt precisely because they were happy.

About two years ago, he and I decided to leave his mother’s house, where we had been living together, and move into a place of our own. We rented a newly renovated house with three bedrooms, right in the city center. I grew up poor, so to me, that house always felt like a mansion. It was more than just a beautiful house. It was an achievement. It was a symbol that maybe, finally, I was building a life. It was also during that same period that, in my free time, I started learning how to code and developed bielzin space. In a way, while I was trying to build a home, I was also building a part of myself. Creating my own space in the world, trying to give shape to my ideas, my tastes, my memories, and my way of existing.

But the problem is that I am a borderline person. And with that came many fights. So many fights. My fear of abandonment, my insecurities, my crises, my pain, and everything I am still trying to better understand inside myself ended up weighing heavily on the relationship. It wasn’t simple. It never was. Our sex life was also never the best, and that hurt me deeply. At the peak of my 21 years, I suffered a lot from not feeling desired by him. I wanted to feel loved, wanted, sought after, seen. But many times, I felt the exact opposite. I felt replaced by pornography, and that made me doubt my body, my performance, and myself.

We opened the relationship. And what happened? He ended up being with other men everything I had always wanted him to be with me. And I was destroyed. That affected my self-esteem, my body, my mind, and the way I saw myself. After a while, I could no longer keep living with him like that. I couldn’t even accept his touch anymore. And that hurt too, because I still loved him, but I could no longer live well inside that relationship.

After almost six months of many fights, arguments, and an increasingly heavy atmosphere, we broke up. First, he ended it. Then we got back together. We fought again. And the second time, I was the one who ended it. The reason was a situation that hurt me deeply. He wanted to go out with a guy who triggered a lot of insecurity in me. Someone I saw as more attractive, more desirable, more of everything I already felt I wasn’t in his eyes. I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t accept it. And after that, he started treating me in a way he never had before. Cold, angry, harsh. As if I were a burden. As if I were trash.

So I ended it, unfortunately.

Even though the decision was mine, I have been suffering a lot. Sometimes I look at our old photos and remember the good moments, the trips, the house, the plans, the routine, the silly little details. I remember the life we tried to build. I also remember our cats, and how everything felt like part of the same family, even with so many problems. Now I am leaving this house and moving into a smaller apartment. It is also beautiful, nice, and elegant in a different way. But even so, it hurts. Because leaving this place feels like the definitive end of a chapter in my life. A chapter that, deep down, I didn’t even want to end. This house represented so much to me. It represented growth, independence, love, effort, dreams, and achievement. Leaving this place feels like accepting that that version of my life has been left behind. Even though it hurt, even though it was difficult, even though it ended in a way I never wanted.

I feel as if my happiness lasted until September 2025. And honestly, I wish so badly that I could go back to that time. Back to when things still felt possible. Back to when I still believed that maybe everything could work out. Today, I am trying to move forward. I am in a job that also isn’t the best, and besides being exhausting, it makes me feel like a failure. I am trying to reorganize myself. Trying to accept that loving someone doesn’t always mean being able to stay. Trying to understand that the end of a story doesn’t erase everything beautiful it had. But it also doesn’t mean I can ignore everything that hurt me. I truly hope that one day I will be happy again. That I will be able to look back with less pain. That I will be able to turn all of this into learning, strength, and a new beginning. That I will be able to forgive myself, breathe more easily, and build a new life without feeling like the previous one was my only chance to be happy.