to my past

To the ex,

I feel nothing,

or at least, nothing

that asks for you back.

It’s been a long time,

really long,

since you chose to leave.

Since then,

not a word.

Silence did what arguments couldn’t.

You showed me

what love can feel like

when it’s real,

and how brutal it becomes

when it breaks.

I saw the extremes.

I lived the extremes.

Love that felt like home,

pain that felt like punishment.

Four walls.

Therapy rooms.

Long pauses between breaths.

Healing, not just from you,

but from the versions of myself 

I became while trying to keep us alive.

I learned accountability.

I learned restraint.

I learned that love without stability

is just survival dressed up as passion.

I’m proud of myself now.

And yes,

I thank you

for leaving when you did.

Because had you stayed,

I might have never chosen myself.

I might have mistaken chaos

for connection

for the rest of my life.

Everything in between,

the yelling,

the fights,

the arguments,

the making love,

the love itself,

I don’t erase it.

I don’t glorify it either.

I carry it as evidence

of who I was

and who I refused to remain.

But the friendship,

that quiet understanding,

the laughter without effort,

the comfort of being seen,

where did that go?

Why was that the easiest thing

for you to abandon?

Did three years

mean nothing to you?

Because to me,

they meant becoming.

They meant life

before I knew how to live it properly.

I don’t miss you.

I miss the place

we never learned

how to protect.