“Ribbon in the Sky”
“So why did you come back?” they asked.
And I answered
Because I thought I was the problem.
Because I thought it was my fault.
Because I believed I needed to fix what I broke,
even if I wasn’t the one who shattered it.
Because I thought I made too many mistakes.
Because I thought if I just tried harder, loved louder, stayed softer…
maybe things would change.
Because I thought I could be better.
Because I thought I should be better.
Because I didn’t realize
it wasn’t me who needed fixing.
It was the lie I was living in.
And what else?
Because he said he understood.
Said he forgave me.
Told me my leaving broke his heart.
But apparently, not that much
because somehow, he still had the energy to entertain others
while I was gone,
to move on without ever looking back.
I didn’t want to see it.
I ignored the signs.
I lied to myself to keep the illusion alive
that he cared, that I mattered,
that I had a place in his life.
So I came back.
And right then, I was proposed to.
Not with love
but with confusion wrapped in a ring,
a desperate attempt to cover up doubt,
to silence the questions I should’ve been asking.
But underneath that shiny promise was the truth
the one I didn’t want to face:
That the proposal wasn’t about forever.
It was about control.
About guilt.
About convincing me to stay quiet
when I should’ve walked away louder.
Did anything change?
For a while… yes.
At first, it felt like a dream
I was floating through La La Land,
on a bridge trip, smiling at the sky,
watching butterflies dance through the air,
telling myself this must be what healing looks like.
But then… something happened.
The fog began to clear.
The same fog that once protected me from the truth,
now started to lift.
And what I saw beneath it
wasn’t love.
It was patterns.
It was performance.
It was the same old story with a prettier cover.
And when you see things clearly
really see them
you can’t unsee them.
And you can’t go back to pretending butterflies aren’t just distractions
fluttering around a storm.
So I did something different this time.
I stopped reacting.
I stopped falling for the same script.
I started using everything I’ve learned from healing
from pain, from silence, from rebuilding myself.
I stopped listening with my ears.
Stopped absorbing with my heart.
And now?
Even with my eyes closed,
I can see exactly what’s in front of me.
Does that hurt?
Of course it does.
How does it make me feel?
At first, I didn’t know.
I was tempted to blame myself again
because that’s what I’ve been conditioned to do.
That’s the cycle I was taught:
If it goes wrong, it must be me.
If it hurts, I must’ve deserved it.
If it ends, I must’ve failed.
But no.
Not this time.
It’s not me.
I’m not the one to blame.
The only thing I’m guilty of
is loving.
Of caring deeply.
Of showing up fully,
offering the most raw and real version of myself
to someone who hadn’t changed
and didn’t care if I had.
And that’s not a mistake.
That’s growth.