I saw you.
In the mirror.
In the headlines.
In the way your voice changed when you wanted control.
You were becoming someone I didn’t recognise.
But I understood him.
You were tired of being powerless.
Tired of being the boy who got locked away.
So you built yourself into something hard.
Something loud.
Something that couldn’t be ignored.
You wore ego like a shield.
You mistook attention for love.
And when people pulled away—you grabbed tighter.
Not because you were evil.
Because you were afraid.
You thought survival meant domination.
You confused love with possession.
You let anger speak louder than grief.
And for a while, I let you drive.
Because you promised you’d protect me.
Because the world had already taken so much, I figured maybe you could steal some back.
But power without peace is just a louder kind of pain.
You nearly ruined everything.
And still…
I don’t hate you.
You were just another version of me—
traumatised, desperate, unfinished.
A boy in a man’s costume trying to scare the monsters away.
But we don’t need costumes now.
We don’t need control.
We need truth.
We need softness.
We need silence that doesn’t hurt anymore.
So this is goodbye.
Not with shame—
but with understanding.
You did what you thought was necessary.
But I’m driving now.
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