I miss you.

I do. Let us not start with lies, because I am quite tired of them. I miss knowing exactly where I stood—which was always on the edge, always waiting to fall. I miss how you made me feel anchored, even though an anchor just keeps a ship from moving.

For the longest time, I walked around with a ledger in my head. I genuinely believed I was the debtor. I thought every bit of your attention was money I had to pay back with interest—paid in obedience, in silence, in pieces of my own sanity. You convinced me—without ever raising your voice—that I owed you my peace.

You told me once, very softly, that I should never endure anything that hurt me. Do you remember? I laughed it off then, but the irony chokes me now. You taught me how to protect myself while you locked me in a burning room. I stayed because I believed the debt was real. I thought the pain was just the price of loving you.

And God, I still miss how you cared. Or how you *looked* like you cared. I miss the shelter you built, even though you were the one keeping the light out.

.....

It took me too long to look down and see what I was wearing... Not golden chains. Not heavy iron. Hidden shackles, thin as silk, woven into my skin. I wore them like they were mine. I defended them. I thought they were just how I was made.

I remember the exact tilt of your head when you said I was too much —too loud, too needy, too much. And I thought: if I could just be less, this would work. So I was less. And less. And the shackles got tighter, and I called it love.

My eyes are open now. I see the weight. I see what you broke.

.....

So why is my heart still reaching for you?

The door is open. I can see daylight, but my chest still aches—ready to welcome you back, ready to bleed from the same wounds again.

I don't want healing. I don't want to close this. I just want to stop wanting you to be the one who fixes it.