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All At Once.

All At Once.

There will be no thunderclap, no screaming finale.  
No divine hand ripping the sky in two for what you destroyed.

It will happen quietly, like rot settling into wood.

One day you will reach for me  
in the small, reflexive ways people reach for air—  
a message half-typed, thumb hovering,  
a story rising in your throat,  
a sharp confession finally ready to fall—  
and there will be nothing there.

Not anger.  
Not comfort.  
Not even hatred’s clean burn.

Just absence.  
Dead air.  
The flat, metallic taste of regret in an empty room that still smells like you once existed in it.

You stonewalled me.  
You gaslit me until I doubted my own eyes, my own scars, my own name.  
You cast me aside like trash—  
something disposable, something you could kick to the curb when it got inconvenient,  
then walk away without looking back.

I want you to remember how long I stayed anyway.  
I stood in the wreckage of your indifference  
calling it love.  
I swallowed your silence like broken glass,  
translated your cruelty into “he’s just stressed,”  
your lies into “I’m too sensitive,”  
your deliberate neglect into wounds I kept trying to heal for you.

I made pretty excuses for every time you looked me in the face  
and chose to erase me.

Until one day I stopped.

Not with fireworks or final screams.  
I simply saw you—  
cold, calculating, empty—  
and loving you became incompatible with breathing.

That quiet decision will haunt you longer than any curse ever could.

You will search for me in other bodies after that.  
In mouths that almost say the right words but taste like plastic.  
In hands that cannot hold you the way mine did—  
without keeping score.  
You will lie in beds that feel like graves,  
rooms full of people that still feel like tombs,  
and something will be missing so completely  
it will feel like dirt in your lungs.  
Like soil packed tight in your throat.  
Like the heavy, wet weight of a grave you dug yourself.

By then, I hope my name rots in your mouth—  
sacred, unusable, a splinter under your tongue  
you can’t stop pressing against.

I hope you understand too late  
that I was the last place you were ever loved  
without ledger, without game, without calculation.

And when the full weight finally drops—  
when the distractions thin and the nights grow long
I hope it hits you visceral.  
A cold fist in the gut.  
The sudden knowledge that the well is dry.  
That the warmth you took for granted is gone.  
That you killed the only fire that ever burned for you without asking for anything back.

And one day—  
maybe years from now—  
you will reach for me again  
out of habit, out of hunger, out of hollow need.

Your fingers will close around nothing but dead air and dirt.  
The echo of footsteps that stopped walking toward you long ago.  
The silence of someone who finally chose herself  
over the slow murder of loving you.

And you will finally understand, bone-deep and bleeding:

I am gone.

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