She Found Me When I Was Broken — Then Left Me When I Was Whole
There’s a kind of pain that doesn’t shout. It doesn’t storm out of your life or shatter windows—it just... lingers. Quietly. Like a cold draft you can’t trace, but that still finds a way into your bones. That’s the kind of pain I was living with when she found me. The Aftermath I was already broken. A past love had left me hollow, aching in places I didn't know could hurt. Not because it ended in loud fights or dramatic scenes—but because it ended in silence. In slow detachment. In questions left unanswered and pieces left scattered. You don't just “move on” from something like that. You survive it. Day by day. Hour by hour. And in that survival, I turned to words. The blog posts I wrote then weren’t just stories. They were lifelines. Late-night letters to God. Cracked prayers typed with shaking hands. Not to be read, really—but to bleed out what I couldn't say out loud. When She Walked In She didn’t rescue me. That’s too romantic for what actually happened. No—she saw me....