I poured all my heart into the story I wrote, yet it refused to stay on the page. It followed me-in the quiet, in the pauses-asking the same question over and over: if I hadn't taken her life, would peace have found me instead? No whispers sharpened into laughter. No names turned into weapons. No threats disguised as truths. I thought of ending everything. Of disappearing from the voices that bruised me, from the place that once felt like shelter, and from the presence that convinced me I was chosen-only to leave me feeling expendable. He was once the ink behind every victory I claimed. The steady voice that told me I was doing fine, that I was safe, that things would work out. I believed he was a story meant to be finished-something worth holding up, worth keeping. But the pages stopped loving me back. So I kept writing alone, pressing words against the ache I never learned to share, teaching myself how to forget the way others said I should. Years passed before I returned. Not untouched-but tempered. Softer in places, stronger where it mattered. I no longer carried the name I once answered. Solitude had taught me enough: about endurance, about silence, about how love can exist and still be lost. Then, one quiet evening, a call came. A familiar voice asked me to stand beside her on the most important day of her life. I told myself I wouldn't see him again-not that I wished to. But some stories circle back without asking permission. He would be there. Standing where I could not look away. Do I continue? Or do I let this draft remain unfinished? started: May 2025 status: on-going