It was never said it outright, but I heard it clearly.
There is already a bound —to a tailor.
A tailor is someone who mends, shapes, and gives form.
The future is already taking shape—woven elsewhere.
And somewhere in the space between, I understood:
there is no place for me in that story.
Not as partner. Not as life-giver.
In his eyes, I come from another world—a world of endings, of death, of shadow.
It hurt.
But it wasn’t rejection.
It was truth.
The kind of truth the unconscious whispers through images and symbols,
the kind that bypasses logic and goes straight to the soul.
I’ve been here before—drawn into stories where love is already spoken for.
It’s a pattern I’m beginning to recognize, but not yet fully understand.
What I do know is this:
The work isn’t to change the story.
It’s to listen deeply to what it’s telling me.
To hold the grief.
To honor what is not mine.
And to walk away with my eyes open.