I thought the ending
would take everything with it—
the ache, the memories,
the part of me that stayed too long.
But endings are quiet liars.
They don’t erase anything.
They just give the anger
enough space to breathe.
Only when the fire dimmed
did the sadness slip in—
soft, almost gentle,
like it was waiting its turn.
Not sadness for you.
Sadness for me.
For the girl who held everything together
with shaking hands,
and wasn’t seen.
For the sacrifices
that were treated like air.
For the love
that went uncounted.
I am not crying for the loss—
I am crying for the cost.
And somehow,
that feels like healing.