To the One Who Got Out

You left. Maybe not the first time. Maybe not all at once. Maybe a part of you still looks back and wonders if it was really that bad. But you left. And that matters. You stopped calling your fear love. You stopped twisting your instincts into silence. You stopped shrinking just to be held. You still ache, sometimes. Still question if it could've changed. Still replay what-ifs like prayers. But you no longer bleed just to stay warm. That is what survival looks like. Not spotless. Not perfect. But yours. You crossed the threshold with shaking hands, but steady— and never looked back. "You don't owe your past a second chance just because it asked nicely."