Not the leaving.
For the first time — not the leaving.
The coming back.
How he always came back.
And that thought pulls a thread.
And the thread pulls everything.
He was always there. That’s what falls apart in my chest. He was always there.
I spent so many years believing I was the only one holding on.
Me, reaching.
Me, waiting.
Me, keeping the window open while he decided whether I was worth coming back to.
But that’s not what really happened, is it.
He was eight years old and we met and something got decided that changed us forever.
He was nine and started coming through my window where he felt safe.
He was eleven and he showed up on the worst night of his life because my house was the only place that felt like somewhere.
He was twelve and sat on a kitchen floor with me without being called.
He was thirteen and he appeared in the dark.
He was fifteen and he stayed until I fell asleep.
He was sixteen and he came back after two weeks and kissed me.
He was eighteen and he came back through my window the night my mom died.
He drove in the middle of the night for twelve hours when my dad called.
He was always coming back.
Every single time. For me.
He just struggled with staying. With letting me in. And I know why.
I spent my whole life living in the leaving. Measuring it. Making it mean everything.
I never looked at it as a whole.
He left.
He came back.
And then—a blue daisy on the windowsill.
He pushed me away because he thought he had to. Not because he didn’t love me. Because he thought that’s what love looked like.
