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Baby She Offered Me Money To Leave You

Baby, She Offered Me Money to Leave You Baby, listen to me slowly, because what I’m about to say is heavier than silence and louder than truth. She came to me with a smile that didn’t know my name, with eyes that measured love the way accountants measure loss. She didn’t ask about your laugh, or the way your voice finds me in the dark. She didn’t ask how you fixed parts of me I never knew were broken. She asked a simpler question. A colder one. “How much will it take,” she said, “for you to leave her?” Money sat between us, clean, crisp, confident— as if love were a door that opens with the right amount of cash. Baby… she thought I was for sale. She thought my heart was a rented room, my promises temporary, my soul negotiable. She didn’t know that I have already paid for loving you— with sleepless nights, with fear, with distance, with hope that hurts and faith that bleeds. She slid numbers across the table like they were magic spells. She spoke of comfort, of ease, of a life without struggle. She said, “You could start over.” But she didn’t understand— you are not a chapter. You are the book. How do you explain to someone that your name is written on my breathing? That leaving you would mean leaving myself behind? Baby, I looked at that money and saw how small it was. Because how do you price the way you say my name like a prayer you don’t want answered too fast? How do you put a number on the way you believe in me even when I forget how? She talked about futures, but mine was already standing right in front of me— shaped like your smile, strong like your silence, real like your flaws. I told her something simple. “I’m already rich.” She laughed. She thought I was joking. But baby, I am rich in the way your heart trusts mine. Rich in every tear you never showed anyone else. Rich in the way you chose me without guarantees. She said, “Everyone has a price.” And that’s when I knew how poor she really was. Because love like ours doesn’t live in wallets. It lives in scars, in patience, in staying when leaving would be easier. Baby, she offered me money to leave you, but she didn’t know I already spent my whole life choosing you. I remembered the nights when the world felt heavy and you were the only thing that made it lighter. I remembered promises we made with no witnesses except the stars. I remembered how you stayed when you could have walked away with dignity and silence. So how could I betray that for paper and numbers? She said, “You’re making a mistake.” But baby, loving you has never been a mistake. It has been the bravest decision I’ve ever made. I walked away from that table without touching the money. It felt dirty— like it had tried to touch you. I came back to you with empty hands and a full heart. Because I don’t want a life that’s easier without you. I want a life that’s real with you. Let the world try to buy me. Let temptation knock. Let people misunderstand. I will still stand here and say your name like it’s the only currency I accept. I Have You I have you— and some people will never understand how that sentence can carry the weight of an entire universe. I don’t mean possession. I don’t mean chains or promises spoken too soon. I mean the quiet miracle of knowing that somewhere in this loud, restless world, your heart leans toward mine the way the moon leans toward the sea. I have you like dawn has the courage to return every morning, even after the longest, darkest night. I have you like breath has faith in lungs it has never seen. Before you, I was a man made of almosts. Almost happy. Almost brave. Almost complete. I smiled, yes— but my smiles were missing something. I laughed, yes— but my laughter echoed back too quickly. I loved, yes— but love felt like a language I spoke with an accent, never fully fluent. Then you came, and suddenly the words made sense. I have you in the way my thoughts find you without asking permission. In the way your name appears in my mind like a reflex, like muscle memory, like instinct. I have you in the way my hands remember the idea of you, even when you are not there. I have you in my silence— because even when I say nothing, you are still listening. There are days when the world is heavy, when life feels like it is asking questions I don’t know how to answer. On those days, I don’t need solutions. I don’t need miracles. I just need the truth that somewhere, you exist. And that truth is enough to keep me standing. I have you like the sky has stars it doesn’t always show. Even when clouds come, even when storms arrive, the stars are still there. So are you. You are not perfect. Neither am I. And that is exactly why this works. I don’t have an illusion of you— I have you. Your contradictions. Your moods. Your soft days and sharp ones. Your laughter that heals and your silence that teaches me patience. I have all of it. And I choose it. I have you in my future, not as a fantasy, but as a direction. When I imagine tomorrow,