The Billionaire I Never Asked For

The Man Who Never Apologized

At first, I told myself nothing was wrong.

That is what people do when they are still in love.

They explain away the silence.They justify the distance.They protect the idea of the person more than the reality of them.

Mussa had changed.

Or maybe… he had simply stopped trying.

But in my mind, I kept searching for softer explanations.

He is busy.He is tired.He is under pressure.

And sometimes, he would return briefly to the version of himself I missed.

A long call.A sweet message.A moment of warmth that made me believe again.

Then he would disappear again.

And I would start over emotionally every time.

The first real argument did not come loudly.

It came quietly.

Like most problems in relationships that are not fully stable.

I had sent him a message earlier that day.

Something simple.

Something normal.

No pressure.

But he did not reply.

Hours passed.

Then a full day.

And something in me cracked—not loudly, but enough for me to speak.

I called him.

Once.

Twice.

The third time, he picked up.

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

“Yes?”

I paused slightly.

“I’ve been trying to reach you.”

Silence.

Then he said:

“I was busy.”

That was it.

No apology.No acknowledgment of my waiting.No emotional awareness that I had been thinking about him all day.

Just… I was busy.

And I remember how small I felt in that moment.

Not because he was harsh.

But because he was indifferent.

I tried to be gentle.

“I understand you are busy… but just let me know sometimes. I get worried.”

Another silence.

Then his response came.

“You are overthinking things.”

And just like that… my concern became a problem.

Not his behavior.

My reaction.

I remember hanging up that call and sitting in silence for a long time.

Not angry.

Just confused.

Because I did not understand how my feelings had suddenly become something I needed to control.

The second argument came days later.

This time, I decided not to call.

I waited.

I told myself I would not chase.

But when he finally messaged me, I replied slowly.

Not immediately.

Just to balance things.

And that was when he noticed.

“Why are you replying like that?” he asked.

I tried to stay calm.

“I was busy.”

His response came quickly.

“You are changing.”

I frowned at my phone.

“Changing how?”

“You are becoming distant.”

I almost laughed.

Because I was the one adapting to his distance.

But I didn’t say that.

Instead, I replied gently.

“I am just trying to match the energy.”

And that was the first time I saw a shift in him.

Not sadness.

Not understanding.

But irritation.

“You don’t need to match anything,” he said.

And then added something I did not expect:

“You are making things complicated.”

That sentence stayed with me longer than the conversation itself.

Because I realized something slowly:

In his world… my emotional needs were “complication.”

After that, something changed between us.

Not openly.

But quietly.

The calls reduced.

The warmth reduced.

The effort reduced.

But the expectation remained the same.

He still expected me to be available.

Still expected replies.Still expected emotional patience.Still expected understanding.

But he stopped giving the same in return.

And the most painful part?

He never apologized for anything.

Not once.

If he was wrong… he stayed silent.

If I was hurt… he stayed silent.

If I expressed sadness… he became distant.

And somehow, I started learning a new emotional language:

One where I was not allowed to ask for repair.

Only endurance.

One evening, Linah noticed me again.

She didn’t even need to ask this time.

She just looked at my face.

And said:

“You are shrinking.”

I frowned slightly.

“I’m fine.”

She shook her head.

“No, Ralisa. You are adjusting yourself to survive a relationship.”

That sentence hit harder than I expected.

Because I did not even realize I was doing it.

That night, I tried to talk to Mussa about everything.

I told myself I would be honest.

Not emotional.

Not dramatic.

Just honest.

So I called him.

He answered after a few rings.

“Talk,” he said.

I took a breath.

“I feel like lately… we are not really connecting.”

Silence.

Then I continued.

“I miss how we used to talk. You are distant. And I feel like I am always the one trying.”

Another silence.

Then he said something that shifted everything.

“I don’t understand what you want from me.”

I paused.

Then I explained.

“I just want communication. And sometimes reassurance.”

His response came cold and simple.

“I am not good at that.”

And then silence again.

I remember sitting there after the call ended.

Staring at nothing.

Because that sentence explained everything.

Not in a comforting way.

But in a final way.

I am not good at that.

As if emotional effort was a personality trait he had no control over.

Not something he could work on.

Not something he could change.

Just something I had to accept.

But the truth is…

Love does not survive on acceptance alone.

It survives on effort from both sides.

And I was the only one trying to build something between us.

The breaking point came quietly again.

One day, I sent him a message expressing how I felt.

Nothing aggressive.

Nothing blaming.

Just truth.

“I feel lonely in this relationship.”

He replied hours later.

“You are too sensitive.”

And that was it.

No comfort.No reassurance.No question about my feelings.

Just dismissal.

I did not respond immediately.

I just stared at my phone.

Because something inside me finally began to understand what I was dealing with.

Not a bad man.

Not a cruel man.

But a man who could not see emotional responsibility as his duty.

And that difference… destroys love quietly.

That night, I prayed again.

But my prayer was no longer the same.

It was not about finding the right man anymore.

It was about understanding why I kept losing myself trying to be loved.

And for the first time…

I felt tired in my soul.

Not just in my heart.

I did not know it then.

But I was slowly approaching the moment where love stops being something I chase…

And starts becoming something I survive.