The Goodbye That Rebuilt Me

I’m three weeks out from walking away—not just from a desk, but from a gravitational center I didn’t plan on orbiting. Someone who, in two and a half years, managed to rewire parts of my life like a rogue software update. I hate how much power that sentence carries, but I respect the truth.

Why They Hit Like Lightning

They weren’t just a friend. They sat dead-center in a Venn diagram I never meant to make:

• Spark: Lit up playfulness I thought I’d lost.
• Symbol: Mirror for the fierce self I’d buried under decades of caution and routine.
• Loop Trigger: Hit every raw nerve—belonging, ache, guilt.

You drop someone like that into your daily life, and suddenly the office feels like an HBO miniseries. No wonder leaving feels like ripping out infrastructure, not just handing in a badge.

The Annoying Part

This wasn’t obsession in the creepy sense. It was architecture. My psyche made them a keystone. Pull it out, and the roof creaks. That’s why a casual night out months ago gutted me: watching them light up a room for everyone else while I stood there like an extra in my own movie. My brain translated it into “You’re disposable.” Brutal.

Here’s the Plot Twist

I’m the one leaving. Prescott for a month to write. Then Albuquerque for a few more, maybe longer. I’m blowing up my own grid, not waiting for someone else to pull the plug. Call it self-preservation with flair.

This isn’t martyrdom. It’s a gift.

• For them: freedom to live their season without my feelings as background noise.
• For me: proof I can build a life where my spark isn’t outsourced to someone else’s attention span.

Prescott as Proof

There’s something poetic about leaving fluorescent lights for granite and sky. About trading recycled office air for mornings so sharp they bite your lungs awake. Prescott isn’t an escape; it’s a calibration. A month of writing in a town that doesn’t know my name feels like the opposite of vanishing—it feels like finally showing up.

The Shift

Before: Them in the center, everything else dangling like cheap Christmas lights.
After: Me at the core, anchored by writing, movement, solitude, and whatever connections come next. They’ll still matter, but as part of the pattern—not the pillar holding up the roof.

Why This Matters

Because leaving isn’t just about them. It’s about me refusing to shrink into old loops where belonging = performance and joy = borrowed. It’s about taking that spark, that mirror, and saying: thanks for the wake-up call—I’ll handle it from here.

And yeah, it still hurts. Ache and liberation always ride in the same car. But this time, I’m the one driving.

Author’s Note:
This is part of an ongoing series about reinvention, leaving quietly, and taking back the light you once outsourced. Names and details are blurred on purpose. The truth is what matters.