There are moments when you know —
your presence brings comfort.
Not because anyone says it,
but because something in the atmosphere shifts when you’re near.

You show up.
You offer calm.
You anchor the moment with your quiet steadiness.

And for a while… that’s enough.

But then comes the shift.

A silent decision.
A subtle closing of a door you didn’t realize you were standing in.

And just like that, you’re no longer needed.

Not because the comfort changed.
Not because the ache disappeared.
But because something else spoke louder than tenderness.

You just carry it —
quietly, inwardly.

Not because you chose to let go,
but because you weren’t given the chance to hold on.

And you wonder…
if love is meant to hold,
why does it sometimes have to let go?