Postcards from the Other Side of Goodbye

Postcard #1: The Unsent Goodbye

You didn’t lose me because I was too much.
You lost me because you were too little.
I won’t chase your half-hearted maybes.
I won’t decode silence dressed as softness.
And I won’t shrink myself into something you can carry — when you never planned to hold me properly anyway.
You say you care.
But care without courage is just convenience.
And I’ve lived too long in the shadows of men who mistake passivity for peace.
So no, I’m not angry.
Just done.
Done hoping for fire from damp wood.
Done giving grace to men who call it a favour.
Maybe I was too much.
But I promise you this:
I’ll never be less again.
Not for you.
Not for anyone.

Postcard #2: No Return to Sender

You didn’t lose me.
You let me drift — thinking I’d hover, waiting, orbiting your maybe.
But I caught the wind instead.
And darling, I don’t do return flights.
Your silence? Was louder than any apology.
And your half-love? Could never fill a woman like me.
I won’t shrink to fit your comfort.
I won’t dim to soothe your fear.
I am not a lighthouse for men who never planned to dock.
I am the storm they never predicted — and the calm that follows once I’ve swept them clean out of my way.
Don’t look for me in the inbox.
I’ve left the thread.
I am the thread.
Signed,
Not Yours Anymore.
MissT 🖤

Postcard #3: When You Arrive

When you arrive, don’t bring flowers.
Bring presence. Bring patience. Bring hands that hold without owning.
I won’t ask where you’ve been.
I’ve walked enough deserts to know what drought tastes like.
Just don’t come empty.
Come with a fire that warms, not burns.
With eyes that see not just the body — but the bruises I covered in grace.
Come with a voice that stays soft when my scars speak sharp.
Come without armour. I’m not here to hurt you. I just can’t build with stone.
And if you love me — love all of me.
The siren, the storm, the scared little girl who still checks the locks twice just to be sure.
I’ve been waiting.
Not for perfect.
For real. For deep. For you.
If you’re him, I’ll know.
And baby — so will you.

Postcard #4: Watch Me Walk

I don’t slam doors anymore.
I just leave them ajar — so you can watch me walk without needing closure.
No scenes. No screaming.
Just the echo of my heels and the silence where my softness used to live.
You had me — in your hands, in your reach, and still you let me drift.
Now you’ll scroll through my memory like it’s still yours to open.
Spoiler alert: It’s not.
I was never the kind you forget by morning.
I’m the one you remember in the middle of the night — when the room feels colder, and your chest aches quiet.
So don’t come looking. Don’t ask “what if.”
You already saw what I was made of.
You just weren’t man enough to hold it.
Watch me rise.
Watch me bloom.
Watch me walk — and know this time, I’m not turning back.

Postcard #5: To the One Who Almost Had Me

You almost had me.
With your soft eyes and your hesitant hands.
With your half-built stories and the way you said my name like it might mean something someday.
But “almost” is a place where love goes to starve.
You flirted with depth but never dove in.
Danced near the edge, but wouldn’t jump.
I gave you moments — ripe, golden, ready to bloom.
You gave me maybes. And silence dressed as safety.
You almost had me when I was still soft enough to wait for potential.
But I don’t live in potential anymore.
I live in proof.
And you?
You were a shadow of something that could’ve been real — if only you’d shown up before I learned how to live without needing.
So here’s your postcard:
Signed, Sealed, Never delivered.
You almost had me.
But I fully have me now.

Postcard #6: Dear Emotional Projects — I Quit

I hereby resign.
From teaching grown men basic empathy.
From soothing egos with lullabies while mine screamed unheard.
From decoding moods like crosswords at midnight,
and pretending that “it’s just how he is” is a valid excuse for being emotionally constipated.
From falling in love with potential,
only to find it was just a Pinterest board he never planned to build.
I’m done writing resumes for men who don’t want jobs.
Done being the free therapist, the emotional midwife, the tour guide through their own damn baggage.
This heart? Not a rehab centre. Not a construction site. Not a bloody charity.
I want love that’s built.
Not drafted. Not doodled in crayon on the back of broken promises.
So to all the emotional projects who thought I’d be their blueprint — good luck.
This woman’s retired her cape.
And trust me, she looks damn good without it.

Postcard #7: I Am the Damn Upgrade

I
Let’s get one thing straight:
I was the upgrade.
Not the placeholder. Not the “maybe next time.”
Not the temporary fix for a man permanently stuck.
You didn’t level up — you plateaued.
And while you were busy ghosting your own growth,
I was out here evolving.
I am not the warm-up act for your personal development.
I am the main stage. The whole show.
The sold-out performance you didn’t stay long enough to understand.
You fumbled a rare thing.
And now I shine solo in peace you’ll never disturb again.
No, I’m not bitter.
I’m better.
Glowing. Rooted. Unapologetically ascending.
So if you see me out there — laughing too loud, loving too hard, living too free —
Know this:
you didn’t lose me to someone else.
You lost me to who I became when I stopped waiting for you to catch up.

Postcard #8: Tell the Devil I’m Driving

He came knocking, like they always do — charming grin, hands full of chaos wrapped in charisma.
But I don’t answer doors I’ve already locked.
And I don’t lose sleep over ghosts wearing good intentions.
I’ve danced through fire.
I’ve made homes in storms.
I’ve cried in silence and still managed to roar.
So if you see me flying down the motorway of my life
with lipstick on and scars like medals — just know:
I’m not running.
I’m leading.
And if the past wants a ride, it better buckle up in the boot.
Because I’m done letting fear touch the wheel.
Done with detours built by other people’s doubt.
From here on out, I follow no man, no myth, no half-love.
I follow me.
So tell the Devil I’m driving.
And I don’t need directions.