The Anatomy of My Exit Wounds

I. Heart — The Moment I Knew

She was standing in the kitchen with a fork in her mouth and a stranger’s laugh in her throat. I knew the sound before I knew the meaning. That’s the worst part.

It hit me like déjà vu — familiar in the way a dream is familiar: wrong around the edges, too soft in the middle. It wasn’t her old laugh, the one with the stutter-start that always made me grin. It was airier, practiced, like she’d been rehearsing how to sound unbothered.

The eggs were already sizzling when I walked in. She never cooked this early. Usually, she slept until the sun rose high enough to land on her side of the bed, warming her awake. But she was already dressed. Sweater on, hair half-damp from a shower she hadn’t invited me into. I stood there barefoot, toes curled against the cold tile, watching her move like someone who’d already detached from my gravity.

She tapped the fork against her teeth — a habit she only had when she was nervous — but the rest of her seemed disturbingly calm. Too calm. Like the kitchen had shifted into some parallel version where my existence was optional.

I leaned against the counter, trying to anchor myself to something. Anything. The mug in my hand still smelled like yesterday’s tea. I hadn’t washed it, and now I didn’t know if I wanted to. It felt like the last real thing in the room.

She didn’t say good morning. She didn’t look up. Her eyes stayed on the pan like the eggs were telling her a secret.

The TV hummed behind us. Some old episode of a sitcom she always swore she didn’t even like. The laugh track grated at the edges of the moment, too bright, too cheerful, mocking the quiet death unfolding at the counter.

She finally spoke, still not turning toward me.

“We’re out of oat milk.”

That was it.

Not a greeting.

Not an invitation.

Just a report.

I nodded, even though she

wasn’t looking.

My voice caught behind my

teeth and I didn’t bother

releasing it.

I watched her reach for the salt, the big flaky kind she pretended was “just salt” but used like it was holy water. The crystals clung to her fingers, lit up by the morning sun. She shook them into the pan like she was blessing a meal neither of us would eat together.

And something in my chest… untethered.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It didn’t crack.

It just let go — like a knot

finally giving way after

weeks of quiet strain.

I whispered “I love you”

toward the sink, barely

audible over the pan.

I wasn’t saying it to her.

I was saying it to the ghost

of us, the one still lingering

in the steam above the

stove.

My heart slipped out of my ribcage with the ease of a bird escaping through an open window.

No noise.

No fight.

Just gone.

II. Hands — The Last Time We Touched

It wasn’t even a goodbye. It was a receipt. Long, crinkled, still warm from the printer. She held it between her index and middle fingers, the way you’d hold a cigarette. The way she used to hold my fingers when we crossed the street, or cut through the parking lot in winter, her gloves stuffed into her pocket because she said my skin was warmer than fleece.

Now her hand hovered in the stale pharmacy light, palm half-closed, wrist slack, like she didn’t know whether to pass me the receipt or drop it on the floor and let me decide if I cared enough to bend down.

The air smelled like Lysol and plastic and old gum. A kid was crying somewhere near the cold medicine. She didn’t flinch.

I was carrying too much. Her sunglasses in my hand, a knotted plastic bag looped around my wrist, the tote with our groceries slicing into my shoulder. My fingers were sweaty, trembling just enough to annoy me.

I reached for the paper, and our skin touched — thumb to knuckle.

There was no electricity.

No tremor of recognition.

Just texture.

Her skin was dry, but soft.

Mine was clammy.

The touch barely

registered, like a receipt

brushing your wrist at a

self-checkout.

Barely a second.

Gone before I could even

react.

She didn’t look at me.

She just turned toward the

door and said, “Do you

want to stop at the bodega

on the way back?”

I blinked. Swallowed. Followed. Clutched that receipt like it was a thread. Like maybe if I folded it into a paper crane, it would fly us back to when we used to hold hands on purpose. But it was limp and gray and curling at the edges before we even got to the car.

I stared at her hands on the steering wheel the whole ride home.

Ten and two.

No ring.

No reach.

Just grip.

III. Feet — What Made Me Walk Away

It started with small things. Slippers left by the door I stopped stepping into. Shoes I didn’t untie all the way. Errands I volunteered for, not because they needed doing, but because I needed air.

Distance.

Grocery store lighting.

A different soundtrack than

her voice saying “Hey,

where are you going?”

without ever really

meaning it.

One day I took the trash out barefoot. The pavement was hot, summer-slick, just starting to collect humidity in its pores. I stood there for a second, bag in hand, and stared down the street like it was calling me. Like if I walked far enough in one direction, I could shake her from my skin like a fever.

I started wearing shoes with thick soles. Ones I could run in, even if I never planned to. Boots with ankle support. Nikes I kept by the bed. I told myself it was fashion, practicality, “just in case.”

But really?

My body knew before I did.

My feet started leaning toward the door weeks before my mouth caught up. The apartment got smaller. Every hallway became a runway. I started standing during arguments. Not to yell — just to pivot.

The real turning point came at the dog park. She was on the bench, legs crossed, scrolling. I was in the grass, chasing the dog we’d nearly returned twice, because she didn’t like how much she shed or how her whimpering reminded her of her mother.

The dog bolted, leash still

attached, and I ran.

Shoes sinking into soft dirt,

chest heaving, hair stuck to

my lip balm.

And I remember thinking,

not “I hope she’s okay,” but:

“If I keep running, she won’t

chase me.”

That was the moment. Not dramatic. Not planned. Just movement. Feet on earth. Wind in throat.

A knowing in the ankles:

this time, don’t turn

around.

IV. Spine — What Gave Me The Courage

It wasn’t one moment. It was a series of small fractures: hairline cracks from things she didn’t say, didn’t ask, didn’t notice. The kind of damage you don’t feel until you try to stand up straight.

I used to bend for her. Into shapes that felt noble at first — gentle, flexible, agreeable. I curled myself around her moods like I was made of ribbon. I let my posture become apology. I shrunk inside jokes. Bit back questions. Made my voice smaller in restaurants. I let her win.

Not because she deserved to but because I thought that was love. Letting her interrupt me in group settings. Letting her say, “you’re too much sometimes” in that low, embarrassed tone… like she was saving me from myself.

I remember the night my spine remembered itself.

We were at her friend’s dinner party. A beige room with beige wine and women who wore beige on purpose. I was telling a story, animated, maybe a little loud, laughing with my whole mouth like I always have.

And she put a hand on my

back, real gentle, and

whispered:

“Babe. Volume.”

Just that.

A single word.

A single index finger press

between my shoulder

blades.

But it might as well have

been a knife.

Something in me stiffened.

Aligned.

The other women didn’t notice. Or maybe they did and looked away, like people do when they see a dog flinch. I didn’t finish the story. I didn’t speak much the rest of the night. But my spine was awake.

I started sitting up straighter in therapy. I rolled my shoulders back before walking into rooms. I looked at my reflection while brushing my teeth and thought, “She doesn’t even know this version of me. Not really.”

She still kissed my neck in the mornings like everything was fine. Still asked me to pick up oat milk. Still told me I was “being dramatic” when I cried during commercials.

But the softness in me was

starting to harden.

Not in a cruel way — just

structural.

Scaffolding.

Bone.

The courage didn’t come like a lightning bolt. It came like a posture correction. Subtle at first. Then impossible to ignore.

She said I was different

lately.

I said, “I’m tired of being

small.”

She blinked, confused.

Told me she never asked

me to be.

But that was the problem.

She didn’t ask.

She just expected.

And I was done bending.

V. Eyes — What I Saw Clearly After

I didn’t just start seeing her. I started seeing everything. Her face became a flickering slideshow:

The Girl Who Loved Me.

The Girl Who Watched Me

Cry.

The Girl Who Called Me

Too Much at a party and

then asked for a ride home.

All her versions began showing up at once. She’d blink and shift into the one who used to kiss my forehead, then into the one who scrolled during arguments, then into the one who studied my breakdowns like she was learning a new language.

My vision went kaleidoscopic. Prismed with every contradiction. She was beautiful. And unbearable. And ordinary in all the ways I had tried not to admit.

And worse?

I saw myself.

Me, folded down to pocket-

size.

Me, nodding like a

dashboard bobblehead

while she told her friends I

was “spiritual but not

annoying.”

Me, saying “no no it’s okay,

I’m just tired” with eyes

glassy from holding back

everything.

I had been playing the role of “palatable version of myself” so well I almost got tenure.

The clarity came sharp and fast in the toothpaste aisle. I caught my reflection in a security mirror, wide and warped, and didn’t recognize the woman clutching a bottle of mouthwash like it was mace.

Her eyes were rabid.

Not crying.

Not soft.

Just… done.

Done making excuses for someone who left the room every time I started telling the truth.

“She doesn’t love you,” the

mirror whispered.

“She loves that you make

her look interesting.”

The toothpaste box in my hand morphed into a notepad. I imagined writing DO NOT RETURN TO SCENE OF THE COLLAPSE on every mirror in the apartment.

The next week, I started seeing her twin everywhere. On park benches. In Uber windows. On dating apps I hadn’t downloaded yet. Versions of her — carbon copies, spiritless holograms — mouthing the same phrases:

“You’re too sensitive.”

“It’s just a joke.”

“I never said that.”

Every time, my stomach clenched. Not in longing, in recognition. I’d seen this ghost before. I’d dated this shapeshifter three times. I’d let her make me soft and ashamed and stylish.

Not anymore.

Clarity isn’t clean.

It’s violent.

It tears off the nice skin and shows you the muscle memory beneath. It burns like alcohol in a paper-cut.

But now?

Now I see everything.

And nothing about her glows anymore.

VI. Mouth — What I Never Got to Say

I used to rehearse what I’d say if I ever left her. In the shower. On the train. While watching her sleep with her mouth open like she’d never swallowed a secret in her life. I imagined standing in the doorway, bags packed, wearing something cinematic: long coat, red lipstick, sunglasses even though it was 8:00 p.m. I’d deliver my final line with perfect clarity and devastating rhythm.

“You never loved me. You just liked the sound of me unraveling.”

Cue thunder.

Cue synth music.

Cue her sinking to her

knees while I walk out

untouched.

But when I actually left, I was wearing mismatched socks and carrying a tote bag full of dog food and underwear. She was on the couch, watching one of those true crime shows where the women always disappear in act one.

She looked up and said,

“You forgot your hoodie.”

I said, “Keep it.”

My mouth couldn’t find the

monologue.

There were things I wanted to say. Not all of them cruel. Not all of them clever.

I wanted to say:

“You made me feel insane, and then called me crazy.”

“I shrank so you could breathe easier, and you still said it felt stuffy.”

“Your silence was not mystery. It was vacancy.”

But also:

“I hope you figure it out someday.”

“You didn’t ruin me, just distracted me from myself for a little while.”

“Sometimes I still crave the shape of you in my bed, but I’ve stopped pretending it was love.”

If I could say one last thing, one thing she’d actually hear, it wouldn’t be a scream or a curse.

It’d be soft.

Maybe stupid.

Maybe a little kind.

“You were almost something beautiful. But I wanted all of you, not just the parts that looked good in public.”

And maybe:

“I do still think about your laugh. Just not the one you practiced in front of the mirror. The real one. The one I haven’t heard since the day we met.”

My mouth holds the story, but I let the silence do the ending. It fits better that way. Like a final word I’m no longer interested in saying out loud.