I’m Too Soft for the People Who Remember the Little Things About me
Because in a world where most people forget you as soon as you leave the room, they remember the pieces I never meant to drop. The ones I thought no one noticed. The things I whispered in passing, half-laughed, half-hidden. The kind that listens even when I’m quiet. The kind that sees me when I’m not trying to be seen. They remember these tiny, scattered parts of me. Like puzzle pieces I didn’t even know I was dropping. And somehow, they hold onto them like they’re important.
And I’m too soft for that. Too soft for people who make me feel real just by remembering I exist in these small, delicate ways. Because it's not the grand gestures that get me —it's the quiet remembering. The unspoken, the everyday, the "I see you" without having to say it.
And yet, it’s the kind of love that ruins me — beautifully, gently, entirely.
I’m too soft for that kind of love.
And I’m too soft for that. Too soft for people who make me feel real just by remembering I exist in these small, delicate ways. Because it's not the grand gestures that get me —it's the quiet remembering. The unspoken, the everyday, the "I see you" without having to say it.
And yet, it’s the kind of love that ruins me — beautifully, gently, entirely.
I’m too soft for that kind of love.
