You’ve come back, but I no longer need you.

The door creaked the same as it once did,

but the air was colder, less forgiving,

as though the walls remembered the nights

I leaned against them, trembling,

waiting for your shadow to soften

into something kind.

I used to measure my days by the sound

of your name—

every breath I took was another letter

spilled across the quiet.

But I have lived through seasons

you never asked about,

through mornings where my spine learned

the courage of standing without hands

to hold it steady.

You return now with that same half-smile,

like the years were just a small pause

between the sentences we never finished.

But I have learned

that some words rot when left unspoken.

The pages have yellowed.

The ink runs thin.

I no longer ache for the way you once

pulled the world open,

as if love were a door only you could unlock.

I have found smaller keys—

the sound of rain on glass,

the quiet hum of my own voice

when no one is listening.

I have stitched my own name

into the lining of my chest,

where no one can tear it free.

And so you stand there,

a ghost wearing my favorite memories,

but I have grown tired

of dressing my wounds in nostalgia.

The girl you left behind

does not live here anymore.

Her eyes have cleared.

Her hands are steady.

You’ve come back, but I no longer need you.

The truth fits on my tongue like fire,

sharp, relentless,

and I am unafraid to burn.