I didn't feel strong after I left.
Just quiet. And strange.
There was so much space now.
In my day.
In my thoughts.
In my chest.
At first, it felt like something was missing.
But soon, I realized, it wasn't loss I was feeling.
It was room.
Room to breathe.
Room to move through the day without wondering if he'd text.
Room to sleep without dreaming of being chosen.
I started doing little things.
Unpacking the corners of my room I'd ignored.
Washing my sheets more often.
Trying new recipes, even if I got them wrong.
I stopped rushing to be useful.
Stopped measuring my worth in who needed me.
And when the ache still tried to creep in,
I didn't shove it away.
I let it sit.
I let it speak.
I let it pass.
Because healing isn't just about moving on.
It's about letting things move through you.
And in that space,
I began to notice things I hadn't in a long time:
My laugh. My mind. My ambition.
He never really saw those.
But I was starting to.
Finally.
When I left, I didn't feel like I had arrived anywhere.
I wasn't proud or victorious.
There was no glow-up.
No crowd clapping.
Just... quiet.
I thought space would feel like emptiness.
But it didn't.
It felt like breath.
For so long, I had been holding my breath in that almost-love.
Always bracing.
Always adjusting.
Always hoping he'd meet me halfway.
But now, there was no one to please.
No moods to decode.
No soft yeses masking hard no's.
Just silence.
And me inside it.
At first, it was unfamiliar.
I didn't know how to be without the constant hum of wondering.
Wondering if he'd call.
If I should reach out.
If maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.
But slowly, I started filling the space with things that felt like mine.
I lit candles at night and didn't check if the scent would bother him.
I wore the sticky lip gloss he hated and smiled at my own reflection.
I played music loudly, the sad songs and the silly ones.
I even danced once, alone in my kitchen, laughing at how offbeat I was.
There were moments I missed him.
But even more than that, I missed the me I used to be before him.
The one who didn't apologize for wanting more.
The one who didn't shrink.
So I started writing again.
Not about him.
But about me.
The quiet parts.
The curious parts.
The versions of me I had abandoned to make room for someone who never asked me to stay.
Some nights, I still cried.
Grief doesn't leave because you decide to heal.
It lingers.
It loops.
But now, I let it visit without letting it take over.
And when the ache came, soft and sudden, I didn't text him.
I didn't scroll through old pictures.
I didn't check his last seen.
Instead, I poured it into something else.
A walk.
A prayer.
A playlist.
A deep breath.
Because I was learning that missing someone doesn't mean you made a mistake.
It just means you felt something real, even if they didn't hold it with care.
And now, I was holding it for myself.
I no longer needed to rehearse what I'd say if I saw him again.
I didn't need closure in the form of a conversation.
The closure was in the choosing.
In the decision to stay gone, even when the memories pulled at my sleeve.
He left a space in my life.
And I finally realized…
That space wasn't supposed to be filled with him.
It was for me.
To stretch.
To breathe.
To become.
And maybe one day, someone else will sit across from me in that space,
But they'll be a guest.
Not the whole story.
Because the main character?
She's back.
She's healing.
She's home.