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Healing, Slowly
That night — the night with the panties — may have looked petty to some. But to me, it was the night I stopped accepting crumbs.
The night I stopped begging for honesty from a man who no longer saw me.
Now, I live alone. My space. My rules. No locked phones. No strange perfumes. No secrets.
Dante and I take it slow. He has a daughter who calls me her “Sunday pancake buddy.”
There’s stillness. Laughter. Air.
One evening, Mira joined me on the balcony.
“Do you regret not confronting him sooner?” she asked.
I sipped my wine and smiled.
“No. If I had, he would’ve lied. That night gave me what I needed. Not rage — clarity.”
Because sometimes, silence is the loudest scream.
And walking away?
That’s the most powerful sentence you’ll ever speak.
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