I dreamt of someone last night. In the dream, I went to their house. I wasn’t the version of me who begged or pleaded before. I showed how much I’ve grown — I didn’t ask to be their friend again. I stood my ground. I said how painful it was to know I wasn’t wanted, and I told them I couldn’t allow that kind of disrespect into my life anymore. Then I left.
But as I walked away, a voice — a sister, a witness — called out: “Why would you leave again?” And guilt tugged at me. That old familiar pull, making me circle back. Again and again, like I couldn’t quite shut the door, no matter how much I wanted to.
Then I saw it clearly: how they were only ever occupied with themselves. How little space I had in their world. Rage surged through me. I tore through the dream-house, destroying what belonged to them. It wasn’t about things — it was about the anger I’ve held in too long, the fire I never let myself release.
Maybe it wasn’t their house at all. Maybe it was the house I’ve built for them inside my head, the one I keep circling. Maybe the destruction was my way of saying: enough.
And yet, the guilt lingers. The heaviness. The ache of leaving, even when I know I must.
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