You Built This Distance

A raw exploration of the slow erosion of trust and the heavy distance built by dishonesty.

You Built This Distance


You keep asking me
why I look at you different now—
like I’m searching for something
that used to live in your eyes.


But you already know the answer.
You just don’t like hearing it out loud.


You caused this.
Every hidden message,
every name I wasn’t supposed to see,
every time your phone lit up
and you turned it away from me
like I was the one doing something wrong.


That wasn’t my imagination—
that was your guilt
trying to stay one step ahead of truth.


And now you stand here
confused by my silence,
offended by my distance,
like I woke up one day
and chose not to trust you.


No.
Trust didn’t leave overnight.
It bled out slowly—
through half-truths,
through “it’s nothing,”
through chances I handed you
like fragile glass
you kept dropping anyway.


So don’t ask me
why I hesitate now.
Why I question.
Why I don’t believe you the first time.


You taught me how to doubt you.


You built this version of us—
where love feels like watching
instead of resting,
where I brace myself
instead of leaning in.


And the worst part?


I didn’t want to become this person.
The one who checks,
the one who wonders,
the one who waits for the other shoe to drop.


But you made honesty feel temporary,
and lies feel expected.


So if we’re broken now—
if we don’t feel like we used to—
don’t look at me
like I’m the reason.


Look at what you chose
when I wasn’t looking.