Was it that bad?

Four months.

That’s all it took

to turn a whole life

into something you talk about

like you survived it.

Funny.

I remember it differently.

You didn’t leave a house,

you left a fucking history,

seven years reduced

to an inconvenient memory.

Now you’re painting freedom

in a filtered frame,

new cities, new faces,

new versions of your name.

So tell me—

Was it really that bad?

Were you dying inside?

Counting down the minutes

while you slept by my side?

When the powder hit the table

we could burn ourselves alive,

somehow call the chaos living,

just be happy we survived.

You stayed there for the madness,

you could live inside the flame,

but when I chose to save myself

you didn’t want the same.

When I finally said

I can’t live like this—

Started choosing life

instead of another hit—

You didn’t reach for my hand.

You reached for the fucking door.

WAS IT THAT BAD?

Were we that easy to leave?

Was everything we built

something you couldn’t fucking breathe?

WAS IT THAT BAD?

That freedom meant losing us?

You couldn’t wait another minute,

couldn’t leave us fast enough.

Now you’re showing everybody

how alive you’ve finally become—

Was it really that bad?

Or was running just easier

than facing what we’d done?

Go broadcast the highlights,

let everybody watch,

another drink raised high,

another stranger in the shot.

Tell them Europe’s calling,

tell them life’s finally begun,

tell them you found freedom,

tell them you’re having fun.

And maybe you are.

Maybe that’s the part

I fucking hate the most.

While I’m still burying

the future that became a ghost.

Sometimes I hope the alcohol

tastes exactly like the road

you chose when you walked out

when everything got cold.

Different stranger every week,

another temporary high—

Does it make you feel alive?

Or make the silence

easier to survive?

NEW LIFE.

NEW BED.

NEW COUNTRY IN YOUR HEAD.

GO.

Drink another one.

GO.

Find another one.

GO.

Tell yourself the old life

was the reason you were numb.

But don’t rewrite the fucking years

because you couldn’t face the end—

I WAS THERE.

YOU WERE THERE.

WE KNOW WHAT HAPPENED.

Underneath the anger

there’s a question I can’t kill:

The man you left behind

finally learned to choose himself.

And part of me still wonders…

why you couldn’t love

that man as well.

WAS IT THAT BAD?

Were we that easy to leave?

Were the girls and ordinary nights

something you needed to be free?

WAS IT THAT BAD?

Or were we simply out of road?

Maybe leaving wasn’t hatred.

Maybe staying hurt us both.

Go tell the world you’re happy.

Go become whoever you’ve become.

But I won’t let your new beginning

mean our old life meant none.

Was it really that bad?

I don’t know.

Maybe I’ll never know.

You walked out.

I stayed.

You started running.

I started changing.