Just Mine
I used to think the story of us was the most beautiful thing I’d ever write.
The laughter, the long talks, the teasing and tenderness—we built a world out of words and warmth. It felt safe, real, like something that could last. But sometimes, even the most magical stories come to an unexpected close. Not with anger. Not even with regret. Just with a quiet shift—a door closing, a window opening.
And this chapter? This one is mine.
There was a time I feared losing us would mean losing a part of myself. But now, I see it differently. The love I gave, the hope I carried, the way I showed up again and again—that was never wasted. It was a reflection of who I am. A woman who loves deeply, who feels fully, who dares to dream.
The silence left behind didn’t break me.
It gave me room to breathe.
Room to hear my own voice again, to hold my own hand through the mess, to rediscover the strength I never stopped carrying. There’s something quietly powerful about learning how to stand alone—not as a half, not as a leftover—but as a whole soul in motion. Healing. Growing. Beginning.
And so, while this story doesn’t end with us, it doesn’t end in sorrow either.
It ends with me.
Turning the page.
Writing forward.
Becoming.
Because maybe the most beautiful beginning... was always my own.
I used to think the story of us was the most beautiful thing I’d ever write.
The laughter, the long talks, the teasing and tenderness—we built a world out of words and warmth. It felt safe, real, like something that could last. But sometimes, even the most magical stories come to an unexpected close. Not with anger. Not even with regret. Just with a quiet shift—a door closing, a window opening.
And this chapter? This one is mine.
There was a time I feared losing us would mean losing a part of myself. But now, I see it differently. The love I gave, the hope I carried, the way I showed up again and again—that was never wasted. It was a reflection of who I am. A woman who loves deeply, who feels fully, who dares to dream.
The silence left behind didn’t break me.
It gave me room to breathe.
Room to hear my own voice again, to hold my own hand through the mess, to rediscover the strength I never stopped carrying. There’s something quietly powerful about learning how to stand alone—not as a half, not as a leftover—but as a whole soul in motion. Healing. Growing. Beginning.
And so, while this story doesn’t end with us, it doesn’t end in sorrow either.
It ends with me.
Turning the page.
Writing forward.
Becoming.
Because maybe the most beautiful beginning... was always my own.
