I used to believe in rolling the dice—letting the world surprise me, letting chance write my stories. I thrived on the unknown, collected memories from moments that weren’t planned. The thrill of not knowing was a comfort; I found beauty in the mess, in the possibilities, in what might have been.
But somewhere along the way, I shifted.
Now I draw boundaries instead of wandering. I schedule my joy. I plan my pain. I double-check the locks and triple-check the maps. No more impulsive turns. No more trusting the wind to carry me. I traded the chaos of chance for the illusion of control. Because somewhere between loving too freely and losing too often, I decided that control might not bring me happiness—but at least it might keep me safe.
You bought me a ring once. Just because. I asked you what it cost.
You laughed. I didn’t.
I had already done the math—twice.
You looked confused. I was too.
What happened to the version of me who didn’t count the cost before cherishing a gift? Who didn’t search for hidden strings when love showed up unannounced?
That girl disappeared quietly. Maybe she left when heartbreak overstayed its welcome. Or maybe she’s still hiding beneath all the armor I wear now, whispering, “Loosen the grip. Breathe.”
The girl who lives down the hall invited me in last week. Offered me a drink, played me a song, spoke of loneliness like it was an old friend. Her smile was warm, her laugh too generous. For a second, I let myself enjoy the ease of it all.
But I didn’t go back the next day.
And she didn’t ask why.
Maybe she already knew. That I don’t do second chances. That I don’t give people room to disappoint me anymore. That it’s easier to leave before being left. That control is my crutch, even when it’s also my cage.
You, her, the girl who walks the city streets past two in the morning with headphones on and eyes lost in memory—all of you trace the same outline: a ghost of who I used to be. Free-spirited. Messy. Unafraid.
I envy her, that girl. But I don’t know how to become her again.
I tell myself that fate is chaos and love is a gamble—and I don’t lose games anymore. So I fold early. I leave first. I ghost when it gets too warm. Because if I stay, I might care. If I care, I might fall. And if I fall, there’s no map to lead me back.
Control is safer.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments, I wonder if I’m not just avoiding loss—I’m avoiding life.
Because control might protect me from heartbreak, yes. But it also distances me from the beauty of a chance encounter, the depth of unexpected connection, the magic of not knowing what’s next.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to let go—if only for a breath.