02/21/2026
She didn’t say it loudly.
Didn’t throw plates.
Didn’t slam doors.
She whispered it into her own bones.
“I’m done.”
Done begging for bare minimum love.
Done rearranging herself
to fit into spaces that were never built for her.
Done watering gardens
that only grew weeds around her feet.
The roses in her hand are not for him.
They are for the version of her
that kept hoping.
The one who believed promises
were seeds
instead of smoke.
Her hair falls like a curtain—
not hiding her face,
but closing the show.
The performance is over.
The audience can go home.
She has cried every tear already.
What’s left isn’t heartbreak.
It’s clarity.
“I’m done”
doesn’t always mean
“I don’t care.”
Sometimes it means
“I care too much about myself
to stay.”
And when she finally stands—
she won’t leave quietly.
Not because she’s loud.
But because peace
makes a sound
when it walks away. 💔
(author unknown)
