The Weight of Leaving

It’s cruel, isn’t it?
Months.. years, maybe—spent stitching yourself whole
with trembling hands,
threading the needle of solitude
through the fabric of your own breaking heart.

You learn the taste of silence,
the weight of empty rooms,
the hum of a life unshared,
and you wear it like armor,
sharp at first, but soon a second skin.

And then they walk in.
Like sunlight through a boarded-up window,
uninvited, blinding,
a warmth you forgot you craved.
You didn't ask for this, a hand to hold,
a face to memorize in the dark,
a voice that drowns out the void.

You let them in,
let them rearrange the furniture in your soul,
let them press their fingerprints into places
you thought no one would ever touch.

But here’s the thing about sunlight,
it doesn’t stay.
It shifts, fades, leaves shadows behind,
and when they left,
they took the light with them.

Now the silence isn’t quiet;
it’s a roar,
a scream in every corner where their presence used to be.
The rooms aren’t empty anymore;
they’re haunted.
You’re not alone, you’re abandoned.

And the armor?
It doesn’t fit anymore.
It’s too tight,
too heavy,
a burden you carry but can’t shed.

You’d scream at them if you could.
You’d beg them to return what they stole—
your peace,
your balance,
the version of you who didn’t need anyone.

But you know the truth:
they didn’t take it.
You gave it.
Freely, foolishly, beautifully.

And now,
here you are.
Empty-handed,
heavy-hearted,
standing in the wreckage of your own hope.

But maybe...just maybe
you’ll learn to stitch yourself whole again.
And this time,
you’ll sew the seams a little tighter,
leave a little less space
for anyone else to slip through.

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