The Cost of Certainty

I packed what was left of myself—
the parts that still asked questions,
the parts that flinched at half-truths.

​

Ten years
folded into boxes.

​

Somewhere between compromise and patience,
I had traded my own voice
for certainty.

​

I thought certainty
would feel like safety.

​

It didn’t.

​

I packed
without knowing
what came next.

​

No map.

No promise
that leaving would hurt less.

​

Only the understanding
that staying
had already cost enough.