Why Do They Get to Be Happier?

Maybe it’s that they were smart enough to leave.

Maybe it’s because they’d planned it for months, secretly enjoying their life without you before it even began.

Maybe it’s because you were blissfully unaware, hiding behind your delusions, horrified by their reveal.

Maybe you had to feel every ounce of regret, every inch of your gut, every mile of your intestines soaked in green, burning acid, writhing and twisting into knots, begging for water and air and just a moment of relief …

Maybe all they had to do was walk out the door.

Maybe they didn’t leave anything behind.

Maybe their life really is better now: better job, better partner, better dreams.

Maybe they aren’t hiding behind a fake smile, hoping for any quiet moment to hear your voice again.

Maybe they aren’t secretly wishing things had been different.

Maybe you aren’t as strong as you thought, didn’t know what you wanted until it walked away, pretending it had never stepped foot across that threshold.

Maybe their days live more fluidly, quietly floating across shallow rocks.

Maybe yours crash like waves, surviving on the ledges of sharp, looming cliffs.

Maybe they’ve been renewed, ripe with supple skin and well-oiled joints.

Maybe your bones have been picked dry—your meat used as brunch for vultures, organs dried and shriveled, crushed into ash and used to flavor the dish.

Maybe your lives weren’t as you thought: birthed by the meeting of different particles of dust created by stars that exploded hundreds of thousands of years ago.

Maybe it was all just a coincidence, a cosmic mistake.

Maybe it wasn’t cosmic at all.

Maybe time moves more quickly for them, their cuts turning to scabs which turn to barely visible scars overnight.

Maybe your cuts are still ripping open, exposing what’s underneath the layers of skin, even as new healthy layers beg to grow each passing hour.

Maybe it was all just a dream—a nightmare, even—a weighted foot on the gas pedal with no brakes in sight.

Maybe it’s the tires going flat, screeching against the pavement, metal scraping, sparks flying—an ember drifting away until it finds its home in something flammable.

Maybe they hadn’t yet found their home.

Maybe yours is miles away.