Where Love Heals

There is a certain kind of heartbreak
that does not arrive loudly.

It comes quietly,
two exits away from someone
you once would have crossed oceans for.

It sounds like your own heartbeat
filling the car
while your hands grip the steering wheel
hard enough to keep yourself from turning around.

He called,
and for one dangerous moment,
it felt like the beginning again.

Like becoming.

Like late night conversations
and softness
and the illusion that maybe this time
you would finally be loved gently.

But somewhere between the laughing
and the longing,
I realized
I was reaching for connection
while he was reaching for access.

And that realization
hurt more than leaving.

So I kept driving.

Even when every part of me
ached to be chosen.
Even when loneliness wrapped itself
around my ribs
and whispered,
“just go back.”

I kept driving.

Because love should not make me disappear.
It should not leave me feeling tiny,
invisible,
half-alive beside someone
I would have given everything to.

And maybe that is what healing really is—

grieving someone
while refusing
to abandon yourself for them again.

Today hurts.

But today is also the farthest
I have ever been
from the version of me
that settled for almost-love.

And even through the ache,
I am still moving forward.

JMS