Champagne Confessions

Time doesn’t heal you.
It teaches your habits how to hide.

The old self doesn’t die, it waits. Patient. Coiled.
Not loud enough to alarm you, just quiet enough to be mistaken for a memory instead of a warning.

And then one day, without ceremony, you feel it again,
the itch.

Not dramatic. Not destructive, yet.
Just familiar.

The urge to go back.
To old patterns, old desires, old ways of escaping.
Because no matter how tightly you’ve gripped this “new version” of yourself, there is a part of you that remembers how easy it was to let go.

To burn.
To ruin.
To disappear inside something, someone, somewhere, anything, that numbs the weight of everything pressing in at once.

And the truth is, it felt good.
That’s the part no one says out loud.

Escape wasn’t chaos,it was relief.

I’ve never been the type to beg.
Not for love, not for change, not for someone to stay.
But lately, I’ve noticed something unsettling,

I’m closer to who I used to be than I ever admitted.

She’s not gone.
She’s watching. Waiting.
Standing just behind me, hand on my shoulder, whispering how easy it would be to let everything collapse.

And some nights… I want to listen.

Because normalcy has never fit me.
I’ve tried to wear it like a well-tailored life, but it always splits at the seams. Leaves me exposed. Restless. Wanting something sharper, deeper,something that feels like something.

To love is to be marked.
To be in love is to be haunted.

And I am haunted.

By who I was.
By what I allowed.
By the versions of people I can’t unsee.

It’s like standing still in the middle of a moving world,
everyone rushing past, laughing, evolving, becoming,
while I’m stuck, feet cemented to a version of myself I can’t fully leave and can’t fully return to.

I told myself I wasn’t lost.
That I was just tired.
Outgrowing things.

But exhaustion and avoidance wear the same face.

And lately… I hear it again.

The call.

Not loud. Not urgent.
Just present.

The part of me that wants to burn it all down, not out of weakness, but out of familiarity.

Because destruction, at least, feels like movement.

Most nights, I sit alone with it.
During the day, I hide inside routine, pretending structure is the same thing as stability.

But when it’s quiet, when there’s nothing left to distract me,

I’m left with the only questions that matter:

Who am I…
when I’m not running?

And am I lost,

or just one decision away
from becoming someone I swore I’d never be again?