I belonged to you. Every part of me bent itself into your shape— a home you once called yours and then abandoned, doors left swinging in the wind. Now I sit in the ruins, walls caving in, dust choking the light. And the questions… God, the questions— they circle me like vultures, pecking at the pieces you left behind. Why did you leave? Was I never enough? Did you ever love me, or just the way I loved you? They come at night when the world is asleep and I can’t breathe for the weight of them. They come in the day when I’m pretending to be fine, pressing their claws into my chest. I try to fight, but the questions don’t want answers. They want me hollow. They want me still. So I stop fighting. I sit down in the middle of the storm, let the questions tear through me like fire through dry grass. And I burn. I burn until there is nothing left but quiet. It’s strange, how surrender feels like release. How letting them win is the only way I can finally let you go. And so I do. I let the questions carry the last pieces of you away, out into the night, where I will never follow.