You didn’t walk away.
You rewrote the story and ran.
Not because I was cruel,
but because I was consistent.
Not because I broke you,
but because I held up a mirror
you couldn’t bear to see.
You lied—
to your friends,
to your family,
maybe even to your therapist.
Spoke half-truths with full conviction
because admitting you left love
would’ve meant facing your own reflection.
You lied—
to turn presence into pressure.
To make structure sound like control.
To recast my protection as something to fear
so you wouldn’t have to own
that you were never ready for the kind of love
that costs comfort
and builds character.
You didn’t leave a bad man.
You left a steady one.
And when your chaos didn’t match my calm,
you called it control
because it made the guilt easier to swallow.
You lied to live.
To keep the version of yourself
that didn’t have to change.
To keep the voices that told you
you were strong for running
and brave for blaming.
But one day,
when the silence is too loud
and the new mask slips—
you’ll remember who I really was.
You’ll remember
who cooked.
Who stayed.
Who listened.
Who prayed.
Who asked for your heart
while you gave me your wounds.
And maybe you’ll still lie to them.
But you won’t be able to lie to yourself forever.
You’ll remember the man you left
and the truth you couldn’t carry.
And I?
I will have already laid it down
and walked away free.