You say we both were hurting,

but I can only carry one heart—my own.

And it breaks, not from guilt,

but from bearing the weight of your suspicion

long after I set my hands down in peace.

I did not flirt.

I did not stray.

I did not feed a fire I never lit.

You built shadows in your mind

and then blamed me when they whispered.

For eighteen months, I showed up.

I stood beside you in your storm

while you named it after your father—

but I heard the edges of your grief,

how it curved back toward me.

You feared I’d be unfaithful,

while I feared becoming invisible.

You thought I was drifting,

when I was just trying to breathe

through the tight threadbare space

you allowed for trust.

This wasn’t love.

Not when love demands constant defense

from a crime never committed.

And now,

even my comfort in bed—

the softness I asked for—

becomes another battlefield

where my voice is overrun.

So here it is,

clear and final:

I release you from the sound of my reasoning.

You may go,

and make your choices

without the burden

of my heart trying to keep pace.

But know this—

it was never me

who left the light off.

Sincerely,

The woman who stayed

until she couldn’t.