The Price I'd Pay

Sometimes I’m angry you left. That you gave up. That you weren’t strong enough to stay. The bitterness creeps in quietly, like a shadow I didn’t invite. But then I stop—because who am I to measure a pain I never lived? I never stood at the edge of whatever storm made jumping feel safer than standing still. I wish you were still here. I wish I could tell you that. There’s a part of me that broke the day you disappeared, and no matter how time tries to mend it, the crack remains. I’ll always carry that—some days with sorrow, some days with blame. Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe it’s human. But still, if the ache I carry now is the price I had to pay for having known you, for having laughed with you, lived beside you, loved you—then I’d pay it again—every time.