When we first met,
I truly thought I was Cinderella—
not because I needed saving,
but because somehow,
even in the mess,
you made it all feel magical.

The nights felt golden.
Your words were spells,
and I believed every one.

We did everything right.
Or at least,
we did everything the way love told us to—
with open hearts and reckless hope.
But the world had other plans.
The odds…
they were never in our favor.

You were beautiful chaos.
You swept me off my feet,
and I let you.
Not because I couldn’t stand on my own—
but because it felt so good to lean.

With time,
that magic faded into something colder.
You called me crazy.
But was I really?

Or were you just tired of hiding
the pieces of yourself I finally started to see?

Yes—
I’m an addict.
Not because I wanted to be.
But because somewhere along the way,
I mistook numbness for peace,
and love for escape.

If I could go back—
God, I’d undo the blow.
I’d pull that night from the sky
and rewrite it without the high.
But I was in love.
Or I thought I was.
Was it real?
Or just another illusion
you let me fall into?

Maybe you always knew
how this would end.

But now,
this is my story.
And I finally see that.

So I sit with the ache,
the ruin,
the memories we buried in dust and denial—
and I do the one thing
you never thought I could:

I choose myself.

I edit the pages,
tear out the lies,
press the pain into poetry.
And with shaking hands,
I close the chapter
where I loved you more than I ever loved me.

This isn’t a fairytale.

But it’s still a love story.
A different kind.
The kind where the girl walks away—
not bitter,
not broken—
but whole.

And ready for her sequel.