To the Version of Me Who Gave Up

You sat down

in the middle of the storm

and said,

“This is where I end.”

You didn’t mean to break me.

You were just tired

of pretending the cracks weren’t there.

You stopped answering messages.

Stopped brushing your hair.

You let the dishes pile up like proof

that something inside you

was collapsing.

You wore silence

like it was armor—

or maybe a cage.

And I don’t blame you.

You were the version of me

that didn’t see a way out.

That mistook stillness

for surrender.

But I picked up where you left off.

I washed the dishes.

I said the hard words.

I learned to breathe without apologizing.

I learned that scars

don’t mean it’s over—

they just mean you survived.

You gave up.

But I didn’t.

And that’s why we’re still here.