Let it Unfold

I don’t chase karma.

I don’t cast spells.

I just live well—

and let time do what time does best.

There’s a kind of justice

you don’t have to serve.

It shows up

when you stop watching the clock,

when you stop wishing her pain,

and start building your peace.

One day,

she’ll open a drawer

and find the echo of my voice

in a folded note,

a recipe I taught her,

a quiet morning that felt like safety.

And it won’t scream.

It’ll whisper.

This is what you walked away from.

Not wealth.

Not status.

Not control.

But a man

who would’ve carried your wounds

like sacred weight—

if only you’d let him.

And maybe it won’t hit her in a moment.

Maybe it’ll drip,

like regret down a window

she can’t close.

Because you can silence a person—

but you can’t silence truth.

So I won’t gloat.

I won’t wait.

I won’t hope she stumbles.

I’ll just keep climbing.

And if she ever looks up

from her house of almosts

and sees what I became—

That’s justice.

Not because it hurt her.

But because it never needed to.

It only needed to show

that I was never the storm.

I was the shelter.

And she—

just never came inside.