I told myself
I was done.

Done circling the same thought,
done rehearsing old conversations
in empty rooms,
done tracing fingerprints
over scars that already healed.

I lasted three days.

Then something small —
a song,
a date on the calendar,
a name spoken casually —
pulled the thread loose.

It wasn’t dramatic.
No shattered glass.
No loud confession.

Just the quiet return
to what once felt like oxygen.

I don’t always relapse into destruction.
Sometimes
I relapse into memory.
Into missing.
Into believing it still matters.

And maybe that’s the hardest part —
knowing I can walk away
and still choose
to turn back.

— Maggie
The Afterlove Voice 💫