I waited for silence to speak,
for an apology wrapped in truth,
for the echo of her voice to say,
“You were right to love me — I was wrong to leave.”

But closure never comes in words we don’t hear.
It comes in accepting what was never said.
It lives in the quiet decision to
stop bleeding for someone who’s already healed.

I thought closure meant answers.
Now I know
it means no longer needing them.

It’s standing at the edge of a memory
and choosing not to fall in.
It’s hearing her name and
feeling nothing sharp.
Only space.
Only breath.

Closure isn’t the door she locked behind her.
It’s the one I just opened for myself.
No key.
No goodbye.
Just me
and peace
finally making eye contact.