I was honest—
not in speeches or long explanations,
but in the way I stayed
through every crack in your story.
In the way I gave when I had nothing left.
In the way I let you blame me
just to keep your world from falling apart.

I smiled when I felt like screaming.
Laughed when I wanted to disappear.
Listened while my own voice
got quieter and quieter.

You said I held you back.
Maybe I did—
but only from burning down
the last bit of peace you had left.
I stood between you and the edge
and let you tell yourself it was my fault
the cliff existed in the first place.

And still, I stayed.

But that version of me—
the one who bent
so you could feel less broken—
he’s done.

I’m not going to pretend anymore.
Not for you.
Not for anyone.
Because pretending made me forget
that I mattered, too.

I was honest,
even in silence.
Especially in silence.
But now honesty looks like walking away—
without a speech,
without a scene,
without regret.