I don’t blame you—
that’s the part
that surprises even me.
After everything,
after the quiet ways
things unraveled
without ever fully breaking,
I expected anger
to be louder.
Cleaner.
Something I could hold
and point to
and say
that’s what I feel.
But it isn’t.
It’s softer than that.
More complicated.
The kind of understanding
that doesn’t bring relief—
just a different kind of ache.
Because I see it now.
The distance
you didn’t know how to name.
The hesitation
you tried to hide.
The way you stayed
just long enough
to convince both of us
it might still work.
You didn’t mean
to hurt me.
You just didn’t know
how to love me
the way I needed.
And I didn’t know
how to ask for less
without losing myself.
So we stood there—
meeting halfway
in a place
that was never enough
for either of us.
And somehow
that was worse
than anything loud.
No betrayal.
No explosion.
Just two people
trying their best
and still getting it wrong.
So no—
I don’t blame you.
But I won’t pretend
it didn’t cost me something.
Because understanding
doesn’t erase the damage.
It just makes it harder
to hate you for it.
Through the Fog 