Decision

Call it a decision.
Call it reckless.
Call it the quiet cruelty of choosing yourself.

I left so you could breathe easier—
though my lungs collapsed in the leaving.

You never understood.
Truthfully, neither did I.
I only knew the sound of my own silence
as I swallowed fear like broken glass.

That day I buried
my wishes,
my plans,
my fragile little futures—
and a piece of my heart that still had your name on it.

Perhaps we could have been something vast.
A life.
A world.

Or perhaps you had already departed
long before my body followed,
and all you needed
was for me to pretend
it was mercy.

I said I was okay.

I lied.

Now I watch you from the quiet side of memory—
you look lighter,
happier,
as if the storm left with me.

So yes,
the decision was right.

I chose the ending for both of us.

The pain is gone now, mostly.
What remains is a strange stillness—
a place where hope used to grow.

Sometimes I wander there
and ask the ghosts:
why,
how,
what if.

But I do not let hope answer.

My decision was final.
Do not mistake my silence for waiting.

I forgave you.
But memory is a scar that refuses to fade.

Still, I do not suffer the way I once did.
I do not pretend love beside another body.

Instead I sit with myself
in the dim corners of my own mind,
crying quietly
until the night loosens its grip.

For now, that is enough.

I will learn to save myself.
To love myself.
To defend what remains.

The choice I made
was the best one for us.

You’re welcome.