Through the Fog

Category: letting go

  • The Weight of Maybe

    Maybe that’s the hardest word

    I know.

    Maybe you loved me.

    Maybe you didn’t.

    Maybe things would’ve worked

    if the timing was different,

    if we were different,

    if life had been kinder.

    Maybe.

    It’s a word

    with no ending.

    A hallway

    that never reaches a door.

    And I’ve spent years there.

    Walking back and forth

    through old conversations,

    old mistakes,

    old versions of events

    trying to find an answer

    hidden somewhere

    inside the wreckage.

    But maybe

    isn’t an answer.

    Maybe

    is the place we go

    when the truth hurts too much.

    The place between acceptance

    and denial.

    The place where hope

    goes when it doesn’t know

    how to die.

    And I’m tired

    of carrying it.

    Tired of giving possibilities

    more power

    than reality.

    Because reality is this—

    some things happened.

    Some things ended.

    Some people left

    without explaining why.

    And no amount of maybe

    will change it.

    So tonight

    I’m setting it down.

    Not because I understand.

    Not because I’m over it.

    But because uncertainty

    is a heavy thing

    to drag through life.

    And I’ve carried it

    long enough.

    Maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe—

    for once—

    I don’t need to know.

  • Whatever Makes You Happy

    Whatever makes you happy—

    even if it isn’t me.

    Even if my name slowly fades

    from the places you once said it softly,

    like it mattered.

    I’ll stand back and watch you choose a life

    that doesn’t include my hands,

    my voice,

    my late-night honesty.

    I’ll pretend it doesn’t bruise

    to see you light up

    in a room I no longer enter.

    I wanted to be the place you rested,

    not the lesson you learned from.

    I wanted to be the reason you stayed,

    not the reason you grew brave enough to leave.

    But wanting has never been the same

    as being enough.

    So I’ll love you in the quiet ways—

    the ways that don’t ask for proof

    or promises.

    I’ll love you like distance loves memory:

    without interruption,

    without reward.

    If happiness finds you somewhere else,

    I won’t chase it down

    and beg it to look like me.

    I’ll swallow the ache,

    fold it neatly into my ribs,

    and call it grace.

    Just know—

    letting you go isn’t easy,

    and it isn’t clean.

    It’s choosing your peace

    over my longing,

    over the version of us

    I carried longer than I should have.

    Whatever makes you happy—

    I hope it holds you gently.

    I hope it sees you the way I did.

    And if you ever wonder

    why I disappeared so quietly,

    it’s because loving you meant knowing

    when to step out of the way.

  • Leave

    Leave—

    before the walls remember my name,

    before the floorboards learn the sound

    of my shaking hands.

    Leave—

    while there’s still a part of me

    that believes I’m worth staying for,

    before the shadows start whispering

    everything I’ve tried to forget.

    I can’t promise I won’t miss you.

    I can’t promise I won’t ache

    in places you never even touched.

    But I won’t ask you to hold on

    to someone who keeps slipping

    through their own fingers.

    So go,

    while the door still opens,

    while the sky outside

    still carries a little color.

    Leave—

    not because I don’t care,

    but because I do.

    And because sometimes

    loving me

    means walking away

    before the darkness drags you down too.