I walked away the way one steps off a moving walkway.
Slowly. Carefully.
Not with anger, not with tears,
but with the quiet precision of someone who has learned the pattern.
I remembered the mornings he held me,
the afternoons we laughed without caution,
the way his hands could feel like home.
And I let those memories exist—
not as chains, but as reminders that I had once been seen.
I remembered the nights I waited,
the silent dinners, the laughter that wasn't mine,
the subtle weight of being less.
And I let those exist too—
not to haunt me,
but to show me exactly what I could never endure again.
I am done with loops.
Done with errors that feel like love.
Done with patterns that promise warmth and deliver absence.
And for the first time,
I am entirely my own.
Cold, yes.
Alone, yes.
But free from the cycle.
Free from the repetition.
Some errors are beautiful.
Some errors teach.
Some errors—
you leave behind,
even if you loved them once.