LEAVING SEASON

The leaving always starts before the goodbye.

She wore the bruises where no one could see them.

Not the kind that bloom on skin—but the quieter marks, tucked deep inside. The soft welts of disappointment. The tender blue of hope gone thin.

She carried them like beads on a string. Not for pity. But for proof. A quiet testament to what she’d endured, and how long she’d stayed.

He couldn’t help but notice. And where she saw endurance, he saw indictment. A reminder of everything he hadn’t given, hadn’t understood, hadn’t been able to protect.

They never spoke of it. Not directly. It shifted between them like a virus and grew like a fungus.

The leaving began the way seasons do—not with a door slam, but with a soft shift in weather. The space between them growing dense. The words offered more carefully, like glass handled by its edges.

She didn’t rush. She didn’t rage. She let the ache speak for her.

And he, waiting for the thaw, kept misreading the signs. Mistook the silence for acceptance. Kept thinking the sun might swing back toward them.

But the season had already changed.

The leaving was done long before the words arrived.