DELIVERED

Walking away without a goodbye is a powerful move.

She welcomed the silence. It wasn’t emptiness; it was a sanctuary. The quiet granted her permission to rediscover the corners of her life she had once abandoned to meet someone else’s needs. She moved through her home, grounding herself not with a phone screen, but by touch, her fingertips grazing the familiar grain of the wooden table, the cool smoothness of the sunlit windowsill. Soft touches on hard surfaces, delicate fingers across the dark fabric of the couch. A palm against the mirror, leaving behind faint, fading prints: a record of persistence and power.

The title of their final chapter was “Strangers, But Not Quite.” The thought didn’t wound; it exposed. He was gone. Their story had run its course. In its wake, she hadn’t been hollowed out; she’d been redefined. The pieces she’d lent him were hers again: sharper now, recalibrated for purpose rather than passion. The ghost of him lingered, faint as her scent on the royal blue cushions, a memory pinned to an old Spotify playlist (Reggaeton, replaced by R&B) it no longer ruling her digital or physical space. That old longing tried to resurface, like a poorly managed app trying to run in the background, but she channeled it into other pursuits and flourished. She knew better now.

"How has it been three months?" The words came not in disbelief, but as a quiet, internal challenge. Three months of digital silence hadn’t created distance; it had revealed strength. “Estranged” was evolution. Boundaries weren't bars; they were breakthroughs. Even her vernacular had changed. “WYD?” had been playful intimacy; “Take care” her love language. Neutral language wasn't cold; it was control, it was dignity restored. But the echo of it still settled in empty chambers. Time, the most ruthless of teachers, had refined her into grace and composure.

“Promise me you’ll stay this time,” she had once typed into a late-night DM. But unrequited emotions leave even the bravest undone. Raw and real couldn't survive inside a fantasy. She exhaled, steady hands stroking fevered flesh. “This is better.

Then the past snuck in to test her resolve: he appeared on her screen, circled in red. No flinch. No tremor. No spark. Just calm.

She didn't miss the storm. She had braved it, and thrived: wild, wet, and wise.