I’m terrified—not the kind of fear that fades,
but the kind that lives in my bones,
whispering at every quiet moment,
reminding me that I might break the one I finally hold close.

Because I know what it’s like to be broken,
to feel like a cracked mirror—
and sometimes, I catch myself reflecting that same fracture.
What if my cracks cut them?
What if my shadows swallow their light?

I’m scared of being the echo of every hurt they’ve tried to forget—
the ghost that follows behind love,
slowly unraveling it, stitch by stitch.

I want to be their shelter,
but I’m afraid I’m just another storm,
a storm that leaves bruises they never asked for.

I carry the weight of past failures—
not just mine, but the ones I fear I’ll repeat.
Because love isn’t just a feeling—
it’s a responsibility, a fragile treasure
that can shatter if held too tightly,
or lost if held too loosely.

I want to protect them from the pain,
but what if I become the pain?
What if my best isn’t enough,
and the person I love ends up hurting anyway?

I think about love like the Mona Lisa—
so rare, so precious, so infinitely valuable—
and I’m terrified I’ll look away,
unaware of the masterpiece in my hands,
until it’s marred beyond repair.

Maybe I’m afraid because love demands truth,
and sometimes I’m afraid of what that truth reveals—
my own brokenness, my own fears,
the dark places I’ve never fully faced.

But even with all that fear,
I want to try.
To learn how to be the balm,
not the bruise.
To hold them like they are the last light I’ll ever find in the dark.

Because love—real love—shouldn’t be a battlefield.
It should be home.

And I’m so desperate to come home.