I Could Stop Choosing You

I told you I would choose you.

The words came tumbling from my lips like second nature, soft and obedient. Shaped by habitual loyalty more than conviction.

I didn’t even stop to consider them. They just… appeared.

As if I was trained in calming you down when your eyes filled with war and your arms crossed for battle.

Looking back, I think I was.

My hip dug into the kitchen counter, grounding me with the dull ache it created. A mug of lukewarm coffee was nestled between my hands, something safe to hold onto in a house that felt so unsteady.

In that moment, it made perfect sense. It was the obvious answer to provide for the man I loved.

I said I’d choose you over anything.

Over anyone.

Over myself.

Your troubled blue eyes softened at my reassurance. Your battle-ready stance relaxed at my ceasefire.

You nodded your head slowly, cautiously, as I held my breath. Hoping I’d kept the anger within your bones at bay. For the moment, at least.

But when you gave me a soft smile, my soul filled with a quiet, persistent dread. Because only then did I wonder…

When had you ever chosen me?

Your loyalty lived at the bottom of a bottle. Clear, poison liquid that had you in a way I never did.

It existed in the rolled paper you brought to your lips. In the haze that hung between us like a curtain I could never pull back.

Your purpose was tangled somewhere within the web of lies you’d spun so intricately you didn’t know where one thread ended and another began.

Your religion was the Bible of ugly words you’d thrown at me when didn’t get your way. Ones that left scars on my heart long after you’d forgotten you said them.

I turned my back to you, pouring the rest of my coffee down the drain. The smell of it rose up, turning my stomach. The mug clattered against haphazardly stacked dishes, stained from dinner the night before.

The food I made for us. Because I always did.

Because you expected me to.

All the times you asked for my forgiveness. Expected me to stand by your side no matter the storm you created or the destruction you left behind.

The never-ending moments I was supposed to have compassion while waiting on you to become the man you always swore you could be.

It was finally hitting me.

You were asking me to make choices that if the roles were reversed, you would have never made.

I had made you my only option, but I was never yours.

I wasn’t your first choice or your second. There was a chance I wasn’t even on the list.

I was a tool you used to feel stable. A mirror that reflected love back at you when you hated yourself.

I loved you in your most unlovable and forgave the unforgivable.

I made you a part of my identity without ever asking why you couldn’t do the same for me.

You brought that morning up to me, a few weeks after I left.

Asked me why I lied to you that morning in the kitchen.

You wanted an explaination I didn’t know how to give. You wanted to be the victim of my change of heart.

I didn’t know what to tell you then. Didn’t know how to convey the moment of clarity I had while staring into a sink full of dirty dishes.

But I do now.

When the conversation was over, you walked into another room and closed the door between us.

The smell of smoke followed, rolling out in waves, washing over me. In that moment, it was painfully clear.

Like finally figuring out what that one random light switch in your house leads to. Or discovering a shortcut when you’ve been taking the long way this entire time.

I realized I could stop choosing you.

I

Could

Stop.