“In some ways, it was nice to be the one leaving, instead of the one being left.”

There’s an oldness that lives in this kind of pain. An aging you can feel in your bones. When people leave enough times, leaving stops being an exception and becomes a rule you learn to expect: inevitable, indifferent, whether chosen or not. The first few times it cracks you open. After a while it carves a habit.

I swore, after one too many doors, that I would never be the cause of that hollow ache for anyone. So I gripped harder as hands began to slip. I lingered longer as months wore down the fine edges of us. Sometimes my holding worked. Sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes the ones I kept began to tear me: palms slick with blood, forcing me to loosen my hands.

Each departure burned its signature on me—a hot pit in my chest that cooled into scarred stone. The shape of being left grew familiar; the idea of leaving no longer strange. And still, the memory of that old ache kept me rooted. Proof of why I would endure for others.

Then, once, despite every vow, I walked away. And for the first time, it was strange to see their faces—salt and wide-eyed, the ache reversed. Watching them hurt made me forget, briefly, that I had been the one always left behind. For a moment I felt important. For a moment, it was nice.