a lil thing about begging someone to stay

There’s this ache that sits in your chest when you realize you’ve started begging—begging someone to stay, begging them to keep choosing you. It’s humiliating, yeah, but worse than that, it’s terrifying. Because it’s not just “don’t leave me tonight,” it’s “please still be here tomorrow.” Please still be here with your body, with your laugh, with your spark—the one that once burned so bright it felt like it could set the whole world on fire.

And god, that’s the part that shatters you. Because you feel it slipping. You see the flame shrinking, the warmth fading, and yet you hold on like a fool. You keep whispering to yourself, maybe tomorrow they’ll still love me the same. Maybe tomorrow that spark will flare up again. Maybe tomorrow I won’t feel like I’m losing them piece by piece.

So you cling. You beg in every way you know how—with words, with silence, with the way your hands shake when you reach for them. You beg in the hope that the universe will hear you, that something will shift, that the person you love won’t wake up and decide you’re no longer enough.

It’s raw, it’s pathetic, it’s human. And it rips you apart—because no matter how much you plead, you can’t force a flame to keep burning once it’s already dying.