Cally's Site

Dear You, I laid your clothes in the bin—the fabric rough against my palms.“I don’t love you anymore,” I whispered,and still, my hands trembled. For months I scrubbed my skin raw,trying to wash away the memoryof your touch—the kind that bruised instead of held,the kind that took instead of asked. You told me it was normal.You told me I saved you.I was young enough to believethat love meant surrender. I see now how small you made me—how silence became survival,how I mistook fear for devotion.When I finally left,I carried your ghost like a scar. But healing came slowlyin the laughter of my sisters,the warmth of my mother’s arms,the mirror that…