If You’d Just Said You Were Scared

I didn’t need your bravado. I needed your broken truth.

I crave a man’s courage.
Not the kind that stands tall and unshaken—
the kind that shakes and still speaks.
The kind that says:

“I’m scared to lose you. I want you. I feel jealous, and I don’t know what to do with it.”

If he had said that to me—raw, no mask, no manipulation—

I would have dropped everything.

I would have looked him in the eye and said:

“Baby, I’m right here.
You have me, and I’m not going anywhere.
I will do anything to prove that I’m not going anywhere.”

Because I don’t punish men for feeling.
I only walk away when they try to hide it—
or worse, when they twist it into power plays and silence.

I’m not here to soothe fragile egos.
But I am here for the men who bleed honesty.
I stand by those who admit they’re scared—
and don’t make me pay for it.

I would’ve stood by him.
I wanted to.

But he never gave me the truth.
Only the absence of it.
And I can’t love what won’t show itself.

So I left.
And maybe I still hope, deep down,
that one day he finds the courage—not to chase me,
but to face himself.

And if he does?
Maybe I’ll still be here.

Maybe I won’t.

But at least we’ll both know I never left because he was scared.
I left because he pretended he wasn’t.