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I don’t talk about you much anymore.

Not because it doesn’t matter

but because saying your name

feels like reopening a room

I finally learned how to walk past.

Some nights I miss the version of myself

who thought love was a place you could live in.

She made space for everything.

She bent.

She stayed.

Now I measure my words.

I leave first.

I don’t let silence grow teeth.

I notice how my body learned new habits

how my shoulders stay tense

even when nothing is wrong,

how I sleep lighter,

like peace might leave if I blink too long.

I don’t hate you.

That surprises people.

What I feel is more complicated than anger.

It’s grief without a funeral.

Loss without permission to mourn.

I carry you in the things I don’t reach for anymore.

In how I pause before trusting warmth.

In how I double-check doors that were never locked.

Some days I feel strong.

Other days I feel hollow.

Both are true.

Both are mine.

I’m not waiting for you to come back.

I’m waiting for myself

to stop looking over my shoulder

for a past that no longer needs me.

And when that happens

when my heart stops bracing for impact

I won’t call it healing.

I’ll call it

finally exhaling.