It Sounded Like Repair

I answered the phone— some small part of me wanted to believe that change was possible.

It wasn’t because I‘d forgotten who he’s been. And certainly not because I needed him. But because hope is not a flaw and curiosity is not weakness.

So, I let my armor loosen— just a little— in that way that you do when you think someone might finally meet you without a cost.

But he didn’t.

And the moment I asked for what was already mine, the spell broke.

The tenderness vanished. The language shifted. Control stepped back into the room wearing the same old clothes.

That’s when I knew.

Not with anger. Not with devastation. But with clarity.

You see, I didn’t lose anything in that call. But, I did learn something.

I learned that my vulnerability was never the danger. His need to dominate it was.

So this weekend, I’m not grieving him. I’m repairing the seam where I briefly believed I could be met there.

I’m re-patching my armor with discernment instead of shame.

No self-scolding. No “I should’ve known better.” No turning tenderness into a crime.

Just steady hands. Breath. Music playing low enough to let the truth land gently.

I didn’t open because I was foolish. I opened because I am alive.

And now I close again— this time, not out of fear, but out of respect for what my body protects.

Some doors don’t close with a slam. They close with a quiet understanding:

This path doesn’t lead forward anymore.

So I turn back toward myself, toward the place that never asked me to shrink, never confused control with love, never demanded my dignity as proof.

The armor fits again.

Not heavier. Not harder.

Just truer.