Rewriting me

I tell myself that missing you will get easier.

That loving you wasn’t working.

I remind myself of all the ways we hurt —

the words, the silence, the way I kept trying to prove I was enough.

I replay it all.

The things I could have said differently.

The ways I split myself in two just to keep us alive.

I feel two ways of loving you —

like I can finally breathe again,

and yet, somehow, I have no oxygen at all.

There’s a strange calm here.

A peace that might only be exhaustion wearing a mask.

People ask how I’m doing.

I say I don’t know.

Because I don’t.

My mind is a war zone —

memories and doubts fighting over the same ground.

What was I chosen for?

Was I ever really chosen?

And beneath it all, this whisper:

How do I do it differently?

How do I rewrite this story?

How do I rewrite me?

Maybe it starts here —

in the quiet after the storm,

where I stop needing answers

and start listening for my own voice again.

Maybe it’s not about forgetting,

but forgiving the versions of me

that didn’t yet know how to stay whole

while loving someone else.

Maybe rewriting me

isn’t about erasing what was—

but remembering who I’ve always been.