I make a quiet decision.
Not the kind that comes with a moment of clarity sharp enough to split the day in half. Not a declaration. Not a breaking point that announces itself with raised voices or slammed doors. There’s no surge of emotion that forces my hand, no argument in my head that reaches a dramatic conclusion. It settles instead, slowly, the way sediment finds its level after the water stills. Unremarkable. Inevitable.
Not to leave.
Not to confront.
Both of those options would have been easier to explain, even to myself. Leaving would have given the discomfort a clean narrative. A beginning, a middle, an end. Confronting would have offered the illusion of resolution. Words exchanged. Lines drawn. A sense of having done something decisive, something that could be pointed to late
