Did you know I used to beg for a sign?
Something—someone—
to tell me I was doing things right.
Eventually, I understood there was no way out.
I felt trapped.
Incarcerated in a life I didn’t know how to leave.
I imagined my future self shouting at me,
You knew this wasn’t right.
And I kept asking—
Then why can’t I go?
I wasn’t brave enough
to say I wasn’t happy.
So I looked for permission instead.
I studied your social media like proof.
I searched for cracks I could step through.
I built stories in my head:
He’s cheating.
He’s hiding something.
He’s somewhere else even when he’s here.
Was I right?
I’ll never know.
When it finally ended,
I told myself I was free—
but freedom hurt more than staying.
Maybe because I wasn’t ready.
Maybe because I had already left in my mind
but not in my body.
I thought endings were supposed to feel clean.
Like relief.
Like certainty.
Instead, it felt like being pushed out
of a door I was still standing in.
And I realized something terrifying—
I didn’t lose you.
I lost the version of myself
who believed she still had time to choose.
I lost control of the narrative.
Of the story.
Of my story.
How dare you be the writer?
Feb 3
Feb 3, 2026 at 9:17 PM UTC
Did you know I used to beg for a sign?
Something—someone—
to tell me I was doing things right.
Eventually, I understood there was no way out.
I felt trapped.
Incarcerated in a life I didn’t know how to leave.
I imagined my future self shouting at me,
You knew this wasn’t right.
And I kept asking—
Then why can’t I go?
I wasn’t brave enough
to say I wasn’t happy.
So I looked for permission instead.
I studied your social media like proof.
I searched for cracks I could step through.
I built stories in my head:
He’s cheating.
He’s hiding something.
He’s somewhere else even when he’s here.
Was I right?
I’ll never know.
When it finally ended,
I told myself I was free—
but freedom hurt more than staying.
Maybe because I wasn’t ready.
Maybe because I had already left in my mind
but not in my body.
I thought endings were supposed to feel clean.
Like relief.
Like certainty.
Instead, it felt like being pushed out
of a door I was still standing in.
And I realized something terrifying—
I didn’t lose you.
I lost the version of myself
who believed she still had time to choose.
I lost control of the narrative.
Of the story.
Of my story.
How dare you be the writer?
i think there's been a glitch.
