We Don’t Talk About the Living Room

Let’s imagine this: you’re in your home, a place you once filled with love, laughter, playlists made for two, and far too many scented candles you now regret buying. You poured your heart into this person, this relationship, this version of life and then they just… left.

Not in some slow-motion, violin-playing movie exit. No. It was loud. It was messy. Glass broke (literally and metaphorically). Juice spilled, orange, let’s say, because that’s stickier, nastier, harder to clean. Words were hurled like grenades. Hearts cracked like antique vases.

And when the storm passed? They were gone. And you?

You were left on the couch. Not sitting, rotting. Blanket burrito. Days blurred into nights. The house still a war zone, the floor scattered with shards of glass and echoes of the fight. You didn’t move.

Because why should you? You didn’t start this. You didn’t ask for this.

The Sting

But then, one day, you do move. Just a little. Maybe to pee. Maybe to check if your plant is still alive (spoiler: it’s not). And ouch, glass. Right into your foot. And with that sting, boom! The memories flood back like a bad sequel. And still… you don’t clean it.

Because why should you? You didn’t break it. They did. Let them clean it.

But here’s the thing.
They. Are. Gone.

They’re not showing up at your door with a mop and an apology. They might be out there living their next best life. Or crying into their own mess. But either way, they’re not here. They can’t hear you screaming. Your hurt doesn’t echo into their world anymore. Maybe it never did.

And still, you sit in the mess. Your home, your body, your mind, your peace, is now a battlefield of someone else’s actions. And you’re the one bleeding from wounds they don’t even remember inflicting.

It’s Still Yours

But guess what? It’s still your home.
And no matter how unfair it is (and trust me, it is), that makes it your mess now. Not because you’re responsible for the storm, but because you’re the one left living in it. And you deserve a home that doesn’t hurt to walk through.

No Montage, Just Glass

Let’s talk about healing. It’s not glamorous. There’s no montage. No magical morning where you wake up and say, “Wow, I’m healed! Time for matcha and yoga!” Most days? It feels like walking on broken glass, again and again, until one day you finally decide: “Okay. Maybe I should just… sweep this up.”

The Crowd Moves On

And yes, you’ll be tempted to just sit by the window instead. Shouting your pain to every passerby. And for a while, they’ll listen. They’ll nod, offer tissues, maybe even hot chocolate.
But eventually? They’ll start crossing the street.

Because even empathy has limits when it’s asked to live in a haunted house.

Not Just Your Cuts

Then there’s the friend. You know the one. The one who promised she wouldn’t leave. She walks into your mess. Steps on the glass too. Smells the rot of unspoken grief. And still says, “I’m here. Let’s clean it up together!”

But then you push her away. “Don’t touch it. It’s not our job to clean it.” You want her to sit with you in it, not scrub it out. And slowly, she bleeds too. Until one day, she walks out. Not because she stopped caring. But because she couldn’t keep hurting alongside you.

And now you think: “See? Everyone leaves.”
But maybe… Maybe they weren’t leaving you. Maybe they were just leaving the mess you refused to clean.

Pain’s a Pitstop, Not a Penthouse

Victimhood is tricky. Because you were hurt. You are hurt. That’s valid.
You didn’t imagine it. You didn’t make it up. And you absolutely deserve to scream, cry, rage, journal, throw pillows, whatever helps.

But at some point, you have to ask yourself: Is this pain a place to pass through, or a place I’ve chosen to live in? Because sometimes, we get so used to being hurt that it becomes home. We decorate it. We make peace with the sharp edges.

And healing? That feels terrifying. Like walking out of a room we painted in grief, that we lived in so long we forgot there were other rooms in the house.

Sweep for Yourself

Here’s the thing: Healing isn’t about pretending it never happened.
It’s not about being the “bigger person.”

It’s about finally choosing yourself, your peace, your joy, your right to walk barefoot in your own house without bleeding. It’s about understanding that the person who broke you may never return to fix you.

That closure isn’t a door they’ll open; it’s one you’ll have to close.

Not Yours, Still Yours

And yes, accountability matters. Know who broke what. That’s part of your story. But don’t let their part overshadow yours. Their consequences? That’s on the universe. Your healing? That’s on you. So clean the damn house. Not for them. Not even for the friend. But for you. Because this is still your home. And there’s so much sunlight waiting to pour in, if you just open the windows!

The Light’s Green. Go.

You deserve a life that doesn’t echo someone else’s chaos. You deserve healing, not because you should, but because you can. And darling, don’t miss the green signal ahead just because you’re too busy staring in the rearview mirror. You’ve got a whole life to build. Make sure it’s not on broken glass.

Till the next yap,
With love,
Gowri