After the storm
The ones who left when the calm arrived.
They always left just when things got good.
Not in flames or fury, not in haste.
But when the air was calm, the laughter settled into the walls.
After the fights stopped, hearts were mended,
When the storm has come to pass —
That’s when they started to pack.
Because stillness never suited them. Stability meant stagnancy, and that was foreign and scary. It wasn’t just right. There has to be something more than this. They always chased a horizon that no one else could see, searching for a place that felt like home. A home that is theirs, fully and truly.
And they knew that it was longing. A quiet ache that stretched out beneath their ribs, whispering for places they’d never been to and the lives they might’ve lived. It was a hunger for something they couldn’t even name, yet kept them up at night.
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No one ever stopped them. Maybe because no one ever truly understood what they were thinking, where they were headed, and why. But they weren’t angry. They could only grieve as they were left behind, the way you mourn over a dream that you almost got to keep.
Because they weren’t meant to stay.
Not because they were broken, nor did they not love what they had.
But because staying meant settling,
And settling means silence.
And it was a terrifying thought of silencing the noises in your head, urging you to live your life out there and figure out who you truly are.
They were always meant to be free and out in the world.
So they packed up their things, bringing only a bag with them to set out on their journey. Put a hand on their heart, saying things that they needed to feel real.
And left.
They were the greatest thing we lost. But maybe they were never ours to keep.
