I don’t leave right away.

We already know that.

I stay longer than I should. I explain more than I should. I give more chances than I should.

So when I do finally leave… It’s not random.

It’s not impulsive. It’s built. Slowly. Quietly. Over time. It’s every conversation that didn’t go anywhere. Every moment I felt something was off but stayed anyway. Every time I told myself “this isn’t it”… and ignored it.

It stacks.

And I keep carrying it… until I can’t anymore.

Because there’s a point where something shifts.

Not in them.

In me.

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s actually really quiet.

It’s the moment I stop explaining. The moment I don’t feel the need to be understood anymore. The moment I don’t even want to try to fix it.

That’s when it’s over for me.

Not when I’m crying. Not when I’m angry.

But when I’m done reacting.

Because that’s when I know something in me let go.

And once that happens…

There’s no going back.

Not because I don’t care.

But because I cared for too long without anything changing. And something in me just… shuts off.

I don’t fight it anymore. I don’t push for connection. I don’t try to get them to see me.

I just… leave.

And it probably looks sudden from the outside.

Like I just woke up one day and decided I was done. But that’s not what happened.

I was leaving in pieces long before I actually walked away.

And by the time I finally do…

There’s nothing left of me in it. That’s what finally makes me leave.

Not one moment.

Not one fight.

Not one final straw.

Just the quiet realization that I’ve already stayed past the point of feeling anything at all.

~Tj🩷