🖤 The Vertigo Creed

I am not the woman who walks away without looking back.

I am not the Hitchcock blonde, hair immaculate, heart untouched.

I am Jimmy Stewart—haunted, relentless, unable to stop circling the wound.

I do not numb. I do not forget. I do not file away my grief in neat little boxes.

I feel it. I hold it. I turn it over in my hands a thousand times, searching for the shape of truth.

I see my part in the breaking. I see his. I see the pieces we could have picked up together.

And still I see him walking away—not because I wasn’t enough, but because he couldn’t stay.

I don’t get the clean ending.

I don’t get the satisfaction of full stop.

I get the ache. I get the questions. I get the endless living with what is.

But I also get this:

I get to know myself down to the marrow.

I get the kind of depth only found in people who refuse to look away.

I get to stand in the ruins—not perfect, not whole, but real.

Not that regret ever bought something good.

Nonetheless it is a price some of us pay.

Is there a reason? No.

I am who I am. I didn’t want this mind, this heart, this burden.

But I accept it and move on.

Carrying that heavy burden.

Because he won’t.

A burden you carry for the love of what it once was.

And this love deserves a tabernacle, a stone tablet, something that survives us.

Because it was deep. And true. Never faked. Real.

But too human.