Chapter 5 – Silence and Space

The day I finally left him, there was no dramatic ending. No screaming. No slamming doors or thrown clothes.

Just silence.

I woke up in his bed and realized I couldn’t do it anymore.

Not another day pretending I was okay.

Not another moment making excuses for his behavior.

Not another second trying to be the girl he might love again.

I gathered my things in quiet. Toothbrush. Charger. The hoodie I always wore — his, but it felt more like mine now. I left the gold bracelet he gave me on his desk. It didn’t mean anything anymore. Maybe it never had.

And I walked out.

I didn’t cry that day.

I didn’t even look back.

But inside me, something crumbled.

Not because I missed him.

But because I missed the version of myself that never met him in the first place.

Two months.

That’s how long I went with no contact.

No texts. No calls. No checking his stories. No late-night stalking.

Just silence.

The kind that felt like detox — painful, slow, necessary.

At first, I hated it. I kept picking up my phone out of habit, scrolling to our chat, staring at the empty screen, hoping he’d say something. Anything.

“Are you okay?”

“I miss you.”

“Come home.”

But nothing came.

The world kept moving.

And for the first time in what felt like years… I stood still.

Week one, I cried every night.

Not because I wanted him back — but because I was finally allowing myself to feel the pain I kept burying. All the ways I bent for him. All the parts of me I silenced.

I cried for the girl who didn’t feel good enough. For the one who skipped meals to feel desirable. For the one who kissed someone out of emptiness and blamed herself for being broken.

I cried because she deserved better.

And I was just now learning how to give that to her.

Week two, I deleted all our photos.

Not just off I*******m, but from my phone, my iCloud, the secret folder I used to keep hidden just in case we “worked things out.”

I unfollowed him. Blocked his number.

Removed his playlist from my Spotify.

Even deleted the dumb little pet name I had saved him under in my contacts.

It felt like cutting off oxygen.

But I was starting to breathe.

By week three, I started journaling.

Every night before bed, I’d write one thing I missed and one thing I didn’t.

Missed: His arms around me in the mornings.

Didn’t miss: The anxiety I felt every time he didn’t text back for hours.

Missed: His voice when he was calm and sweet.

Didn’t miss: Wondering who he was texting when I wasn’t looking.

Missed: The illusion of love.

Didn’t miss: The reality of control.

It was like retraining my brain — undoing the fantasy he sold me with truth I could no longer ignore.

By week four, I started remembering who I was before him.

I went back to church. Not out of guilt or routine — but because I missed the peace it gave me.

I met up with old friends. The ones I pushed away because “he didn’t like them.” The ones who asked, gently, “How did it get that bad?”

I didn’t know how to answer.

So I just said, “I didn’t see it until I was gone.”

Some days, I still missed him.

Not the real him — but the version I imagined.

The one who made me feel like I was his whole world. The one who held my hand at parties and made me believe love could be easy.

But every time I thought about going back, I’d remember how I felt in that relationship:

Starving.

Lonely.

Small.

No one should ever feel small in love.

He tried to reach out once.

A blank text. No words. Just a message bubble.

I knew what it was — bait.

A way to see if I’d bite.

To test if he still had control.

I didn’t reply.

And for the first time, I felt powerful in my silence.

That’s the thing about space.

At first, it feels like punishment.

But eventually… it becomes protection.

In the quiet, I found myself again.

Not all at once. Not perfectly.

But piece by piece.

I started moving my body to feel strong, not skinny.

I began eating to nourish, not to punish.

I laughed louder. Walked taller.

Slept better.

I started hearing my own voice again — not his in the back of my head.

And even though I still carried scars from what he did to me, I was no longer trying to make them disappear.

They were reminders.

Of what I survived.

Of how far I’d come.

By the end of those two months, I wasn’t fully healed.

But I was no longer bleeding.

And when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see damage anymore.

I saw growth.

I saw someone who chose herself.

Even when it hurt.