Mending
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She was willing to stay through fear and mess, but love could not survive being the only person still reaching.
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One morning she stopped checking for the name that never appeared, and the phone finally became an object instead of a graveyard.
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Missing her later does not erase the silence that taught her what absence weighs when love refuses to show up.
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The goodbye arrived so slowly she mistook it for distance, until silence had already taught her how to live without them.
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They returned after the door had already changed meaning and loneliness was no longer enough reason to let them back in.
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After years of searching for home in other people’s arms, she realizes the place she kept rebuilding was herself.
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The forest seems to understand wounded things, sending home a kitten whose thorns are only fear wearing fur.
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A little feral creature arrives with claws, teeth, and every reason not to trust hands—then slowly discovers what softness can mean.
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She hated the place while she lived there, yet memory still aches for its mountains, smoke-filled summers, and the person she was inside them.
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She knows darkness well enough to walk it with her eyes closed, which may be exactly why she is finally learning how to leave.
