Chapter46 My healing isn't for you to witness
He came into the room like a man trying not to look guilty.
Hands tucked behind his back, shoulders too straight, voice too level.
> "You look better," he said, eyes skimming over my face like a mirror he didn't want to look into.
I didn't respond.
Because I wasn't healing for him to notice.
I was healing so he'd become irrelevant.
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There's something ugly about getting better after someone breaks you.
Not because it hurts less.
But because you start to realize…
> They weren't as powerful as they made you believe.
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> "I brought you something," he said.
He held out a photo.
Old. Folded at the corners.
A picture of me — or what was left of her — before the surgeries, before the voice in my bones became mine.
I stared at it.
Not like it was a memory.
But like it was a crime scene.
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> "I used to love this version of you," he whispered.
> "That version died because you loved her," I replied.
"And you loved her wrong."
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The silence after that was thick.
He didn't argue.
Because truth doesn't need permission to exist.
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He sat across from me anyway.
As if distance could dilute the rot between us.
> "Do you hate me?"
I didn't answer.
Because hate requires energy.
And I wasn't giving him that anymore.
What I gave him now was absence —
while sitting three feet away.
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He placed the photo on the table.
Then walked out.
And I stared at it until the edges blurred.
Not because I missed who I was.
But because I finally saw who I wasn't.