The Sharpest Blade

The first cut didn't hurt. It was subtle, like the whisper of a goodbye you didn't expect. A promise broken before you even realized it was made. He smiled at me then, the same way he always had, and I told myself it was nothing. A mistake. A slip of the hand.

The second cut was deeper. A missed call. A conversation cut short. A moment of hesitation when his name left my lips. I felt it then—the sting of something changing. But I held on, convincing myself that love was meant to be patient, that wounds heal if given enough time.

The third, fourth, fifth—I lost count. Each one bled a little more, but I stayed. I stayed because the hand that held the knife was the same one that once held mine so tenderly. How could something so gentle turn so cruel? How could a love that felt like home become the very thing that unmade me?

By the time the last cut came, I was already hollow. He didn't even need to say goodbye—I had been bleeding out for far too long. Love, I realized, does not always kill with a single blow. Sometimes, it is slow. A dull ache that turns into unbearable pain. A thousand tiny wounds, inflicted by the one you trusted most.

And yet, as I walk away, I press my hands to my chest, feeling the scars forming beneath my skin. I am still here. Still standing. I may have loved him, but I will not let him be the one who ends me.