Your final words to me
felt like the truth dressed in mourning clothes—
heavy, trembling,
spoken with the steadiness
of someone who has been through storms
far colder than mine.
You looked at my heart
and saw the fracture lines
I tried to conceal.
You saw the loneliness I carry
like a ghost tied to my ribs.
You saw how easily
a man in pain can mistake kindness
for destiny.
And so you told me what others
would have softened,
what others would have sugar-coated,
what others would have swallowed
to keep the story beautiful.
But you—
you have never been a woman
who hides the truth
for the comfort of a lie.
You said I was reaching out
not from love,
but from a place
where my world has collapsed
and I am grabbing at light
from the nearest warm hand.
You said I might fall
into the arms of another woman
with shadows behind her smile,
someone who could harm me
in ways deeper than any storm
I have already weathered.
And you feared that for me—
feared it enough
to say it out loud.
You told me I stand
in deep water,
far deeper than I admit,
and that my next steps
will define the years ahead—
my soul,
my fatherhood,
my future.
You said therapy
with the gentleness
of someone who has watched
too many people drown
because they refused to learn
how to breathe underwater.
And then you said something
that struck me harder
than any heartbreak:
That God is testing me.
You said it
the way a saint might say it,
with mercy in your voice
and sorrow in your eyes,
not as punishment
but as revelation.
And hearing those words,
I realised something
I wish I had known at the beginning—
that you were never meant
to be the woman I ran to
when I was broken.
You were meant to be
the mirror that showed me
how broken I truly was.
In another world,
with calmer timing,
without the wounds
we both carry like invisible armor—
I might have reached you
as a whole man,
not a fractured one.
I might have stood beside you
with clarity instead of confusion,
strength instead of trembling,
intention instead of aftermath.
But this world
is not that world.
And these scars
are not those scars.
Still—
your honesty
has carved itself
into the softest part of me.
And if my heart aches
with a sorrow I cannot name,
it is only because I know
that in another lifetime
you might have been
my safest place.
Here, in this one,
you are the truth
that sets me free
even as it breaks me.
