Loving Like Icarus: A Borderline Love Letter

My dearest,

This is the letter I’ll never send. It exists only here, in the quiet space between my heart and my hands, between the truth I carry and the silence I choose.

For the past few months, the rain has been constant, and in a quiet way, I’ve welcomed it. There is a solace in the way raindrops land on my skin, masking the tears I refuse to shed in plain sight.

But now, the rain rarely comes. The scorching sun burns my eyes, exposing everything I have tried to hide. The heat is relentless, making my unrest unmistakable, leaving no shadows for me to retreat into. Instead, they strip me bare, forcing me to see the ever-present clouds that linger over me — a reality I have tried so desperately to ignore, to expel, to suppress. It is a suffocating weight, like a cough rattling my chest but refusing release. And the truth is this, the three words caught in my throat — I love you.

My love, let me tell you a story about a boy named Icarus. He was the son of Daedalus, a brilliant craftsman who had built many wonders, but none more desperate than the wings he fashioned from wax and feathers. They were meant for escape, a way out of the prison they had been forced into. But before they took flight, Daedalus warned him:

“Fly too low, and the sea will pull you under. Fly too high, and the sun will melt your wings. Stay in the middle, follow my path, and you will live.”

Icarus nodded. He understood. However, understanding is not the same as obedience. Because the moment his feet left the ground, the moment he tasted the wind in his hair, he knew that he was not made for restraint. The world below shrank into nothing, and the sky stretched out before him — endless, open, his for the taking. At first, he stayed close, listening to his father’s warnings. But the sun, golden and glowing, was calling him. The warmth wrapped around him, whispering promises of something more — more than survival, more than escape. It promised him everything.

So, he climbed. Higher than Daedalus. Higher than reason. Higher than any man had dared before. But the sun is indifferent to longing. It does not love, does not yield. As Icarus reached for it, the wax that held his wings together began to melt. The feathers slipped away, one by one, falling like lost dreams. For a moment, he hung there, weightless, suspended between the sky and the sea. And then, gravity claimed him. He fell. Through the air, through the clouds, through the space he had conquered just moments before. The sea rose up to meet him, cold, merciless. The waves swallowed him whole.

Daedalus, watching from above, could do nothing. The sun did not dim. It did not waver. It burned, just as it always had. It was never meant to be touched. Icarus had reached for something that could never hold him the way he longed to be held — and he paid the price.

…

And perhaps, so did I. Because when I first met you, I recognized the pull immediately. It was not love at first sight — not in the way people speak of it in stories — but something quieter, something slower. A gravitational shift. At first, I told myself it was nothing. You were simply warm, and radiant in a way that made people want to be near you. Steady, calm, effortlessly bright.

I used to be someone who could openly express my emotions, never afraid to wear my heart on my sleeve. I used to act on my feelings without hesitation — celebrating them, chasing them, letting them lead me wherever they wished. Back then, I didn’t stop to question whether what I felt was admiration or love; I simply followed the rush, gasped at the intensity, and let it consume me. But time, and the weight of bruised hearts and bitter endings, made me careful. I had learned.

Love, for someone like me, for someone with BPD, is not just love — it is an all-consuming force. I know that everyone falls in love, that longing is universal. But with BPD, every feeling is amplified, stretched to its limits until it becomes something unbearable, something unrecognizable. I had to teach myself restraint, to doubt my own heart, to second-guess every spark before it became a wildfire.

And you helped. You never once showed any sign of attraction toward me. You existed in a world where I was just a passing presence, a friend, a familiar face in a shared place. I told myself it was fine — after all, the things I held close to my identity, the thoughts I wanted to share, were not the kind that turned heads. And maybe that was for the best. It made it easier to focus on work, to bury myself in tasks and responsibilities, to find fulfillment in something other than longing. But that illusion of control only lasted a year.

Slowly, inevitably, we grew closer. In a crowd, I was never the loudest, rarely the one to initiate, but in the right company, I could be lively, my words carried by the momentum of those around me. The people we surrounded ourselves with shared the same frustrations, the same quiet defiance against the weight of authority. There was a comfort in that, an unspoken understanding. But when it was just the two of us, the dynamic shifted. We were both quieter, neither of us the kind to fill every pause with conversation. And in that silence, something stirred — a discomfort that had nothing to do with awkwardness and everything to do with the pull I felt toward you.

I could not share this with our mutual friends. I could not. The thought alone made my skin crawl with embarrassment. If anyone knew, I would die from the humiliation. I felt pathetic. I didn’t want to make a first move. I was broken enough as it was. When you never showed any interest, that should have been enough to make me let go.

So, I sought professional help — not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I said aloud the words I hadn’t dared to share with anyone: I had fallen, and I didn’t know how to climb out. The intensity of my feelings was unbearable, suffocating. It wasn’t just emotional — it was physical. It felt as though a hollow space had been carved into my chest, and the cold wind rushed in, filling the void. I cried a lot and pleaded for it to stop, desperate to silence the storm within me. I just wanted it to stop.

I wanted it to leave me so I could function, so I could move through my days without this gnawing ache inside me. It was a blessing in disguise, though I didn’t see it that way at first. Because of this, I was finally pushed to seek therapy, to force myself into healing. Love had already wrecked so many parts of my life, and I refused to invest in someone who had never even looked my way. I did not think I could survive another heartbreak.

It was during this time that I was diagnosed with BPD. Something that had shaped me long before I even had a name for it. Looking back, I can trace its presence as far as my middle and high school years, buried in the chaos of emotions I never understood. But because it was undiagnosed, it remained untreated, unraveling in ways I couldn’t yet comprehend. And so, my journey into psychotherapy began — not just to survive you, but to learn how to survive myself.

…

They call it a Favorite Person — a phenomenon known to those with BPD, where one individual becomes an emotional anchor, a singular force around which everything orbits. A gravitational pull so strong that your presence becomes the axis upon which my emotions revolve. You are my sun — radiant, unwavering, untouchable.

There was a time when this kind of longing felt romantic, poetic even. It is never just about love, is it? It is the way your steadiness keeps me from unraveling completely, the way your light makes the world feel less cold. Like Icarus, I am drawn to you, not just because you burn so brightly, but because, in your glow, I feel like I exist. The way your quiet presence steadies me, makes my chaotic mind feel, if only for a moment, a little less frantic.

But the sun does not reach down to those who worship it. It does not bend, does not soften. It shines, indifferent to the ones who yearn for its warmth. And so, I watched you — not just with longing, but with something deeper. Admiration? Yes. Attachment? Certainly. Obsession? Perhaps. I told myself that if I stayed far enough, if I never reached too close, I would not burn. But what I failed to realize was that I was already falling, wings unraveling, the sea rising up to claim me.

You have to understand that I genuinely try. With BPD, love often feels all or nothing — ecstasy or devastation, never a quiet hum. This is not something I deliberately seek or control. For someone with BPD, forming an attachment to a Favorite Person happens instinctively, not as a calculated decision. It is not about seeking to fill a void with just anyone, nor is it driven by ulterior motives or opportunism.

I wanted the feeling gone. I swear I wanted the feeling gone. I repeated mantras — ‘This too shall pass,’ ‘This feeling will eventually die out’. If I follow the pattern of my past experiences with lost loves, I know that the intensity will eventually fade. I have even known moments when, without warning, feelings that once consumed me simply vanished, leaving me bewildered by their sudden absence. But apparently, this feeling toward you is more patient than I am.

Even after almost three years, after distance, after countless reassurances to myself, the truth remained. Instead of fading, I have been given more moments with you — more glimpses into the parts of you that you do not readily show to others, the dark side of your thoughts. Not entirely, but enough. And it does not repel me. It only makes me fall even deeper.

I tell myself that I am more than this longing, that I am whole without you. But the truth is, I have let you shape too much of my world, and allowed you to become a mirror in which I measure my worth.

I still cling to a threadbare hope, like a gambler unable to walk away. I wait for another moment, another chance to be near you, another silent, impossible longing to be fulfilled. But it isn’t just about seeing you — it’s the way I indulge, even when I know it will cost me. I stretch myself thin, giving more than I can afford, spending more than I should, as if proximity to you will somehow make the longing easier to bear. But it never does. It only deepens the ache.

I tell myself I need distance, that I should let go piece by piece. I make plans — cut back our meetings, resist the urge to reach out, hold back just this once. But plans are fragile things. Because all it takes is a second — a flicker of impulse, the thought of you crossing my mind at the wrong time — and suddenly, my fingers are typing out a message, my resolve crumbling before I even recognize what I’m doing. And if by any chance you were to call me, I would come — without hesitation, without thinking. Like a creature bound by instinct, drawn to its master, powerless to resist.

…

Sometimes, I wonder — would it be easier if I just confessed? Maybe it would bring me closure. Maybe that’s how I finally peel you away from my mind. But every time the thought crosses my mind, I stop myself. There are three reasons why I will never tell you.

First, because as long as I never say the words, you never have to reject me.

As long as I leave this longing unspoken, it remains Schrödinger’s love — neither reciprocated nor denied, neither alive nor dead. A sliver of possibility, no matter how irrational, still lingers. The moment I lay it bare, that possibility would vanish, and I would be forced to swallow the finality of it.

So I keep my silence. I let the what-ifs sustain the illusion, knowing full well that it is only an illusion. And yet, I am not ready to shatter it. Not yet.

Because what if — just what if — there was a version of you, somewhere, who has felt this pull too? What if there was a universe where we found each other in the same way, at the same time, and the weight of reality did not pull us apart? I dream of that place. A world where intimacy is not an impossibility but a certainty. A world where your touch is real, where I do not wake to find my hands empty.

But I do wake. In the witching hour, when everything is still and the silence is too loud. I stare into the darkness of my room, into the emptiness beside me, and wonder — have I ever wandered into your midnight thoughts? Have you ever woken in the stillness of dawn and remembered me?

When I was still a teenager, I once believed in something — that when I felt something this strong for someone, at some point, they must have felt the same. Maybe the timing was not precisely aligned as when I felt it. Maybe before, maybe later. But they must. I didn’t know why this belief was so deeply ingrained in me. Perhaps it was just too cosmically cruel for it not to be true.

But it seems I have to swallow my own words. It turns out I was lost in my own delusion. That it is entirely possible to be the only one with a heart torn apart by this love. That I have never been more than a friend to you. Reality slaps me in the face, making me realize that this illusion has only been a fragment of my own madness.

Second, because you are your own person, with your own burdens to carry.

And I have always known — I was never the person you wanted. You have made it clear, in your own way, that you are not ready for love. Even if you were, I would not be the one you chose.

We are too different — our worlds, our beliefs, our identities. The things that never mattered to me, I see now, matter to you. And I respect that. I refuse to reduce you to an object of admiration, a fantasy born from my own longing.

You have your own cross to bear. You have your own issues: your fear of commitment, the immense pressure of the values you hold so dearly, and the expectations placed upon you—both by yourself and by the world around you. I see it in the way you hesitate, in the way you retreat just when someone gets too close. You carry burdens that I may never fully understand, struggles that shape the choices you make, and the distance you maintain.

Perhaps that is why I could never bring myself to confess — because love is not just about longing, but about honoring the reality of the person we love.

And lastly, because even if, by some impossible chance, you felt the same, what then?

What could we do? What would change?

My condition is what it is — something I cannot undo, something that does not simply go away with time. BPD is not an affliction that can be cured; it is lifelong, my own cross that I have to bear. But that does not mean I am doomed to suffer beneath its weight. That is why I am learning — to navigate, to manage, to soften its edges so that it does not consume me whole. I do not want to be defined by it, nor do I want it to dictate how I love. But I also cannot ignore that it shapes the way I feel, the way I attach, the way my emotions surge like tides beyond my control. It is something I carry, and always will. And so, I do my best to carry it with grace.

And what about you? You have never belonged to anyone. You are independent, distant, untethered. That is who you are. And I have watched you long enough to know that if one day you are about to choose someone, it will not be me.

That is why, even if the slimmest possibility exists — even if you love me, I have to let you go. I love you too much to let us step into something I fear would only lead to pain. We have endured too much in our lives already.

…

So, I choose to acknowledge it without judgment, to simply say, Yes, I love you, and leave it at that. There is no hope here, no future, no reciprocation. It simply is. I have accepted it now, and perhaps that is the kindest thing I can do for myself.

Once again, I think of Icarus — his body weightless, his heart reckless. He must have known the risk and felt the heat against his skin, but still, he could not turn away. Perhaps love, for me, has always been like that — a beautiful, inevitable fall. The notion of a soulmate seems like something that is never meant for me. Perhaps love, for me, will always be like this — something I carry, never something I hold. And maybe that’s okay.

This letter is not meant for you — it is for me. A desperate attempt, not to ensure my feelings are known, but to give myself the space to practice being alone. To learn to exist without orbiting around you. To teach myself that I do not have to be a slave to attachment.

I do not want to avoid love. But I do not want to chase after it either. So, I leave this here, in the realm of the unsent. A love letter to you, written not for you to read, but for me to release.

Always, Me

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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