You didn’t cry.
You got cold. Then loud. Then violent.
You told me to leave, then chased my car and threw rocks at it.
And in some twisted way, I expected that.
I’d spent so long walking that tightrope with you—I knew what happened when the truth hit too hard.

But that didn’t make it hurt less.

I wish the truth could have landed in a space where we both could’ve said,
“This is horrible, and it’s real, and we’re both hurting.”
But we never got that.
We never got pain without rage.
We never got tenderness in the fallout.

And that’s part of what broke us—not just what I did, but what we couldn’t do after.

I didn’t sleep with someone else because I stopped loving you.
I did it because I felt shut out, diminished, disconnected—and instead of facing that with you, I ran.
Into the arms of someone who didn’t matter.
Into a decision that did.

It wasn’t a calculated betrayal.
It was a collapse.
But that doesn’t make it less mine to own.

You didn’t cry—but something died between us that night.
Not because of what you did in reaction—but because of what I did to trigger it.
I walked you right up to the edge, and when you jumped, I stood there like I didn’t know why.

You’ll probably never see it as anything but betrayal.
And maybe that’s fair.
But I needed to write it anyway.
Because silence doesn’t clear anything.

This is my way of looking back and saying,
“I see it now. And I see you in it.”
Even if you never want to look again.

—M