He looks at me

like I'm still his.

Like the version of me that trusted him

didn't vanish

the moment I stopped feeling safe.

Like I didn't curl up in the shower

some nights,

letting the water hit my face

so he wouldn't hear me cry.

I stayed.

Way past the warning signs.

Way past the moment

I stopped feeling chosen.

I smiled out of memory,

not joy.

Kissed him like habit,

not want.

And every time he reached for me—

with guilt in his eyes,

gentle now,

too late now—

I flinched.

Not because I didn't love him,

but because I didn't know

who I was loving anymore.

You can't rebuild a home

on the ashes of “I swear I've changed.”

It still smells like smoke.

I didn't stop loving him

like flipping a switch.

It was a slow erosion.

Little pieces of myself

breaking off

every time he forgot

how to hold me

without hurting me.

He thought my silence

was strength.

It was survival.

I wasn't healing with him.

I was disappearing.

I hated the moment I realized

I laughed more

when he wasn't around.

And I hated even more

that he didn't notice.

So when I finally told him—

quietly,

like someone confessing a crime—

that I couldn't stay,

he broke.

And I broke, too.