I really did know how. If a man became distant, I attributed it to fatigue. If he forgot important things, to being overwhelmed. If he hurt me with words, to nerves. I found excuses faster than he could apologize.

On the outside, it looked like wisdom. In reality, it was often fear. Fear of losing the relationship. Fear of seeming demanding. Fear of admitting I was feeling bad.

Gradually, patience became a habit. I endured not only other people's behavior, but also my own unhappiness. I woke up next to someone and felt lonely. I smiled at friends when everything inside had long since cooled down. I pretended "everything was fine," even though I'd been wanting to scream for a long time.

The turning point came unexpectedly. I told a friend about my relationship, listing the problems as if they were normal. She listened silently, and then asked, "What exactly are you preserving with your patience?"

This question stopped me.

Because the truth was unpleasant: I wasn't preserving love, but the form of the relationship. The image of a couple. The familiar scenario. But not intimacy, not respect, not joy.

It was then that I first began to think that patience isn't always a virtue. Sometimes it's simply a drawn-out acceptance of something you're not happy with.

Now I have a different view of this word. Patience is useful when two people are trying and going through a difficult time together. But if only one person endures, while the other lives as they see fit, that's not strength of character.

Now I choose not to endure endlessly, but to speak honestly. Not to expect miracles, but to look at actions. Not to hold on to something that's long gone.

Sometimes walking away isn't a sign of weakness. Sometimes it's the moment when a woman finally stops betraying herself for the sake of others.