If I could un-invent one thing, it wouldn’t be something tangible.

Not a device.
Not a system.
Not even a word.

It would be a belief.

The belief that love must be earned.

It’s a quiet invention, really. One that doesn’t arrive with announcements or warnings. It slips into you early, disguised as advice, wrapped in good intentions. Be patient. Be understanding. Don’t ask for too much. Love requires sacrifice.

No one tells you where the line is.

So you learn to move it.

I don’t remember the first time I felt it—that subtle pressure to deserve affection. I only remember realizing, years later, how natural it had begun to feel to explain myself. To justify my feelings. To apologize for needs I hadn’t even voiced yet.

Somewhere along the way, love became conditional.

If I was calm enough.
If I was loyal enough.
If I didn’t make things difficult.

I learned how to measure my worth by how much I could tolerate. How long I could stay quiet. How gracefully I could absorb disappointment without letting it show.

And I mistook that for maturity.

In relationships, I became good at shrinking. Not dramatically—no one ever accused me of disappearing. I simply learned how to take up less emotional space. How to listen more than I spoke. How to call neglect “understanding” and loneliness “independence.”

I told myself I was strong.

But strength, I learned later, can be a very convincing disguise for fear.

Fear that asking for more would push someone away.
Fear that honesty would make me unlovable.
Fear that if I stopped trying so hard, I would be left behind.

So I stayed. I adapted. I adjusted.

I carried relationships on my back and called it partnership. I softened my pain so it would sound reasonable. I edited my truth so it would feel easier to accept. I told myself that love wasn’t supposed to be easy, and that discomfort was simply the price of connection.

No one argued with me.

People admired my patience. My loyalty. My ability to “work through things.” They said I had a big heart. They said I was rare. They said anyone would be lucky to have someone like me.

But no one asked what it was costing me.

The heartbreak didn’t arrive all at once. It never does when the damage is quiet.

It came in moments.

The way my excitement dimmed when I realized it wouldn’t be matched.
The way I rehearsed conversations before having them, afraid of saying the wrong thing.
The way I felt lonely even when I wasn’t alone.

I remember one night in particular. I was trying—again—to explain why something hurt me. I chose my words carefully, like stepping across thin ice. Halfway through, I stopped.

I heard myself.

I heard how small I sounded. How careful. How apologetic.

And something in me broke—not loudly, not dramatically, but completely.

I wasn’t heartbroken because I wasn’t loved.

I was heartbroken because I had learned to believe that love required me to disappear.

That was the moment I knew what I wanted to un-invent.

Not the people.
Not the relationships.
But the belief system that taught me love was something you survived instead of something you were safe in.

If I could un-invent it, I would erase the idea that suffering proves devotion. That silence equals strength. That staying, no matter how unseen you feel, is noble.

I would un-invent the stories that praise endurance but ignore erosion.

Because love—real love—does not demand self-abandonment.

It doesn’t require you to dilute your emotions to be palatable.
It doesn’t make you audition for reassurance.
It doesn’t punish you for being human.

Love should feel like rest.

Not excitement mixed with anxiety.
Not closeness followed by doubt.
Not affection that disappears the moment you ask for clarity.

It should feel like relief. Like exhaling. Like being met where you are without needing to negotiate your worth.

I’m still unlearning.

I still catch myself hesitating before speaking honestly. Still feel the urge to minimize, to soften, to say “it’s fine” when it isn’t. The invention runs deep.

But now, when I notice it, I pause.

I remind myself that love is not a reward for good behavior.
That my needs are not inconveniences.
That being chosen should not require self-betrayal.

Maybe we can’t un-invent the beliefs we were handed.

But we can stop living by their rules.

And maybe healing doesn’t begin when someone finally loves us better—but when we decide to stop loving ourselves less.

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And that’s how I found myself downloading a dating app Part3…Kelvin