I watched him leave with a suitcase and questions I couldn’t answer for him. The house swallowed his absence; every untouched object felt louder than words. I let him go because love that’s real doesn’t chain itself to fear. It waits. It trusts. It hurts quietly in the spaces where a voice used to be. I told myself he was searching, not abandoning, even when the silence felt like proof of the opposite.
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