You keep feeding the same old ache, hoping it will finally rise into something nourishing. But it just sits there—dense, unmoving, proof that sometimes love doesn’t grow no matter how much you give. You’ve waited for softness to appear where only heaviness lives.
It’s brave to admit this isn’t working. It’s brave to stop pouring yourself into something that refuses to become.
I once kept a starter alive out of spite. It still didn’t love me back.