I used to think attachment was love. If I missed someone constantly, worried about losing them, and felt my mood change depending on how they treated me, I thought it meant I cared deeply. So I held on. Even when they pulled away. Even when I was the only one trying. Even when staying hurt more than leaving. One day, I asked myself a question: "If they never changed, would I still choose this?" The silence that followed told me everything. I wasn't attached to who they were. I was attached to the hope of who I wanted them to be. And sometimes, the hardest person to let go of is the version of someone that only existed in your head.