The One Who Got Away

I drew this for him right after something happened that should have made me walk away. I taught him how to treat me.

I’d rather be the one who got away than the one who stayed.

Even though leaving hurt like hell—

months of emotional bleeding, sleepless nights,

and self-control that felt like self-torture—

I knew my future self would thank me.

Because during our relationship,

I had taught him exactly what I would tolerate,

the words that could calm me,

the tone that would disarm me,

and just how far he could push before I’d break.

He had a long runway,

And a nearly endless supply of fuel to keep him airborne.

I could have stayed in his orbit.

He would have welcomed me there—

close enough to keep the illusion alive,

moving me in and out of positions depending on his mood,

but never close enough to truly change

or to properly love me.

But I didn’t.

Because this time, I chose me.

I set down the hope.

The empathy.

The fantasy of what could be.

And I looked, finally, at the harsh, cold truth

of what actually was.

I used to call it a garden—

love and laughter, late-night talks, tiny seeds of hope.

But now I see the truth:

it was a hellish landscape, cracked and dry,

with only a few patches of green pretending to mean something.

Even the flowers bloomed from pain.

So I walked away.

And I’d be lying if I said I don’t still struggle.

There are nights when the ache sneaks back in,

when I can almost feel the gravity of his pull—

familiar, magnetic, dangerous.

I know how easily I could fold back into his story.

I understand my wiring. I know my history.

But this time, I’m writing a different ending.

I don’t know if he sees me as “the one who got away.”

That’s not the point.

I got away for me.