the old house

It took everything to leave.

to carefully pack up every piece of clothing, every item that once felt like a part of me, all bearing traces of you. we had shared so much for so long that when I picked up the blue vase that never sat empty, I couldn't remember if it was yours or mine.

after sealing the final box with tape that felt too flimsy, I made a silent oath to never revisit this place. never again would I allow my world to crumble into this unbearable weight. each box, laden with memories, grew heavier with every trip to the car.

as I reached for my keys, unlocking the car and fastening my seatbelt, my heart raced. I hesitated to start the engine. glancing back, I admired the fresh paint on the walls and the plants we had hung just weeks earlier. I thought about the christmas decorations we had collected all year, now lying unused in the attic.

I never imagined their sole purpose would be to gather dust.

I never imagined all those things would go unused.

tears welled up in my eyes as I let the reality sink in, seeing the home now half empty.

it was like a paperweight slowly sinking into my chest. I started the car and didn’t think twice about driving away.

and I was confident about my decision.

but at times, I find myself wondering how the home appeared to you afterward. did you notice some of your things were missing, or were you, too, unable to distinguish between what belonged to you and what was mine?

at times, I'm haunted by the thought that you never truly returned. perhaps you foresaw it all and decided it was best to leave things as they were, saving yourself the pain. you always ran away from anything emotionally challenging, but to not even return to something that was once so significant to you?

—It makes me wonder if it ever truly meant as much to you as it did to me.

we nurtured our home together. with you, every wall became a canvas for our emotions, painted in soothing, blue tones. each window we cleaned sparkled with the light of our shared dreams. scrubbed every floor tile with our favorite april fresh-scented cleaner, and every shelf we dusted was a testament to the care we poured into our sanctuary.

together, we didn't just organize our closet; we curated a gallery of our lives, finding joy in the memories tucked away in every corner of the house,

corner of the house—

—every part of that house was a mirror of our past. I saw us in the late nights, welcoming you after a long day. I saw us on rainy days, spending hours in bed. I saw us on sunny days, still rushing into bed, ignoring the beautiful weather. on cold days, I saw us almost merging into one, and on the hottest days, I saw us still holding each other close, never concerned by the feeling of our sweaty bodies touching.

and to never come back to this?

to the one place that would have always welcomed you?

but that might just be a theory.

I could still see you, lounging in the hammock we hung from the oak tree, surrounded by the tranquility we created together. the blue vase still holding fresh flowers, their fragrance dancing with the flicker of a candle, filling our home with warmth and light. the fireplace burning with the same passion that kept us close on colder nights.

I would love to go

back to the old house,

but I never will.

because after leaving, I no longer have to work tirelessly to keep every painted wall from chipping. I no longer need to clean the windows, marred by the handprints of unwelcome guest, slowly eroding the sanctuary we once shared.

the floor tiles were no longer marked with the poor attempts to cover up your hidden whereabouts. the shelves remained dust-free, a testament to the constant care and attention I dedicate to nurturing what truly matters to me.

because those weren't just walls, they weren't just dirty windows, and they weren't just dirty floor tiles.

they were your feeble attempts to salvage something that always welcomed, nurtured, and supported you, regardless of how you treated it. when you neglected the walls, they still offered warmth. when you allowed unwelcome guests to enter, the transparency remained. when you waited for the shelves to gather dust before cleaning them, they still proudly displayed every beautiful gift you placed upon them.

—

I would rather not go

back to the old house.