Spring Won’t Come Again Without Me

I Won’t Let You Appear in My Life Again

Before I turned 22, I was completely love-brained in every heterosexual relationship I had. I truly believed my life needed to be supported by a relationship — even if most of it was painful.

So I willingly participated in building the dynamics they wanted, one after another, and immersed myself in it. My entire emotional landscape — joy, anger, sorrow, delight — revolved around that.

Again and again, I threw myself into these tangled webs of joy and sorrow. Again and again, I questioned if I was too sensitive, too dependent, too unreasonable. Or maybe just not pretty enough, not generous enough — maybe that’s why I couldn’t build something lasting.

But then, in the years after entering the workforce, raising a cat and a dog, with neither time nor opportunity for love, I found I could actually hold my life together just fine — calmly, steadily. Even better than when I was in a relationship.

Friends who once were in long-term relationships and eventually broke up started to shine too — open, bright, and warm. Our friendship even had the space to deepen.

I used to think those lovers were my fragile pillars, the ones I leaned on. But they were also the locks that sealed my world shut.

And me? I was the one who helped turn the key, and handed it over willingly.

He never planned to take me to see mountains or oceans.

He only wanted me quiet, obedient, undemanding.

To keep one eye closed, and stay by his side.

Nowadays, I can look back and observe from a distance. What did I think was so “good” about the people I used to think treated me well? All those flaws I covered up for him. All the things I said out loud, defending him, while quietly swallowing my own grievances.

It’s just... absurd. Funny, even. Ridiculous.

Yes, I’ve met a few people since then with a hint of romantic tension. But the more familiar they became, the more I noticed the deep-seated coldness, the dullness, the pettiness underneath.

To be fair, they probably thought I was dull too — I could barely engage in even a few rounds of small talk.

It’s like everyone uses the same damn language. The same self-righteous way of offending others. Even when I revisit my past lovers now, I realize... they were all cut from the same cloth.

So tell me — why should I give myself to this kind of love?

Just to earn a pathetic, fleeting, fake version of affection?

To burn the last of my passion, my hope, my softness?

I won’t.

I refuse.

That doesn’t mean I regret those experiences.

They were necessary — they built who I am. They gave me fragments to look back on and write from.

At 17 or 18, I wrote things like:

“Let’s get married early.”

“Please, just hold on to me.”

“A world without you, and spring won’t come again.”

Now I'm 25, I'm writing:

“If you can’t move forward with me, at my pace or ahead of it, I won’t let you appear in my life.”

I won’t let you appear in my life again.