The Weight of Petals

He said I was too polished, too perfect a facade for someone who hadn't truly lived. That the silk blouses and power suits were armor against experience.
It stung, of course. Men have a habit of mistaking control for composure. But his words echoed in the quiet aftermath, didn’t they?
The cherry blossoms fell like hesitant tears today as I walked through the park, each petal a fragile reminder of things lost and found. It's funny, isn’t it? How something so fleeting can feel so…substantial.
I haven't called him in weeks. The silence is a space for me to breathe, to unravel without explanation. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most powerful move of all. A woman rediscovering her own rhythm doesn't need an audience. She certainly doesn’t require applause.

Editor: Stiletto Diary