When the storm comes, my compass always points to you.

But the needle has been broken for years.

Even so, I still rely on it. When it points to any cardinal direction other than north, when it leads me astray. To far distant lands I will not yet know how to survive in. To allies who pull me from the waters, or adversaries who aim to plunge me deeper. I will never again have a fixed idea of where I will be told to go, and it will never be the same lighthouse where you first pressed this compass into my hands.

After so long without you, I have begun to realize it is better this way.

This is not to say I hold resentment towards you. I may have once, when the wound of you still stung, but we are both in the better parts of our lives. The one and only direction this compass gave me was restricting, and even if you had not indented it to be so, it is how it is.

I can steer from you and still float upon this ship, and it is much better than being completely lost.