I speak to you.

To you, who sleeps with your eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling,
waiting for life to change without moving a single muscle,
as if the universe were a servant answering your yawns.

I loved you. God knows how much.
And if there is something beyond God, it knows it too.
I loved you with the fury of someone who did not know how to love quietly,
who leapt into the void with the absurd hope
that the other would learn to fly out of gratitude.

But you didn’t want wings.
You wanted a bed. A pillow.
The comfort of routine,
the foul sweetness of “maybe tomorrow.”

I thought I was worth enough to make you want to change.
What arrogance. What well-intentioned stupidity.
I believed my love could redeem you,
as if I were the exception to your elegant mediocrity,
as if just by loving you, you would become worthy of fire.

You weren’t cruel. You were worse.
You were passive. You were lukewarm.
You were that fog that wraps but doesn’t warm,
that shadow that doesn’t strike but covers everything.

And I…
I walked for years with my eyes turned toward the sun.
Blinded by the idea of what you could have been.
I didn’t see the red flags. I refused to see them.
I stitched them myself in my mind, with the thread of hope.
Years. I grew old waiting for you.
Not just in body—though yes, that too—
but in spirit.

One morning, I looked in the mirror.
I saw the crow’s feet like battle maps.
I hated myself for a moment.
For staying. For believing.
But then, like a lightning bolt from Nietzsche’s own heaven,
I understood Amor Fati:
to love fate exactly as it was,
to love even the wound,
to love even the stupidity of having loved.

And then, everything became clear.
I don’t have to carry you.
Not because I don’t love you—
but because my love no longer aims to save.
My love now is fierce, but free.
Free from waiting, free from begging, free from praying for a miracle.

I leave you.
I leave you like one drops a golden weight that’s shattered the spine.
Like one abandons a beautiful but sick dream.
Like one walks away from a man she once loved so much,
she learned to let him sink if that’s what he chose.

I give you the honeys of my contempt.
And don’t misunderstand the word.
I don’t despise you—I still love you—
but I despise your cowardly, paralyzed, horizontal way
of seeing life from the bed,
with that expression of “almost,”
as if the world owed you something for merely existing.

My contempt is sweet because it was once love.
Because I expect nothing.
Because I’ve come to understand that you can’t even give yourself what you need.
Much less give it to me.
I don’t blame you. But I’m done staying.

Take my honeys and do as you wish.
Drink them if you must.
Make a letter, a song, pour them on your wounds.
But don’t send me postcards from your journey through hell.
I don’t want pictures of your ruins.
I don’t want gifts bought during your darkest days.
I don’t want perfumes or earrings meant to prove I was right all along.
Because I don’t care about being right.
I care about being free.

And above all:
don’t drag me down with you
in your slow descent into a living death,
into that hell of yours where everything is left for tomorrow,
where dreams are stored in unopened boxes,
where fire exists only in theory.

I wasn’t born to sit still.
I wasn’t born to see the world from a window.
I was born to move even when it hurts.
To leave when the ground trembles.
To burn if there is no other choice.

And if I loved you — and of course I did —
that love remains not as nostalgia,
but as the honeys of my contempt.
They don’t sting,
but they won’t save you either.