I could have broken you, the way you broke me. Piece by piece, with silence that stung and truths you never deserved. But I didn’t.
I held my hurt like glass— sharp, delicate, aching in my hands. And I let it fall only where it wouldn’t cut us both.
Because I saw you— not the mask, not the bravado, but the hollowness behind it. And I understood. People hurt when they’ve forgotten how to heal. People leave when they’ve already left themselves.
I broke. Quietly. Not all at once, but slowly, like dawn peeling night from the sky. And in that breaking, I found light. Not in you. Not in revenge. But in me.
You see, I don’t need to prove anything. Not to someone who couldn’t hold what was real. I don’t scream, I don’t chase, I don’t fight shadows.
I rise. And that is louder than anything you ever said in silence.
Because the truth is, you didn’t destroy me. You revealed me. And I am still standing— brighter, softer, undeniably whole.