He Saw the Door. He Felt the Pull. He Never Walked Through.

A tribute to the man who mistook awe for readiness, and potential for love.

He wanted to be big.

And in a way, he meant it.

He had the language of growth—the books, the quotes, the late-night monologues about breaking cycles and building empires.

He had just enough self-awareness to recognize the ceiling, but not enough stamina to break it.

He dreamed of being with a woman like me.

And then he was.

But he didn’t understand that to be with me is to become equal to the weight I carry.

Not in title. In spirit.

He loved my clarity until it asked for his.

He adored my strength until it revealed his softness.

He called it intimacy—but it was awe.

And awe without action curdles into insecurity.

So he folded.

Not all at once.

First in small permissions—old habits, old vices, small lies.

Then in the slow, familiar decay of a man who wants the crown

but won’t bleed for the throne.

Now he floats in purgatory.

Too awakened to enjoy the mediocrity he used to love.

Too uncommitted to earn the life he claims to want.

Every woman after me is a diluted echo.

Every country he dreams of escaping to, still waits quietly while he scrolls.

Every version of himself he promised to become… remains unborn.

Because he saw the door.

He felt the pull.

He never walked through.

And I?

I stayed long enough to know that love isn’t always rescue.

Sometimes, it’s release.