02 · Soul Imprint
The leaving you call “finally listening to yourself.”
You don’t leave people. You stay until the version of you that walked in has been completely worn down — and then you call the leaving “finally listening to yourself.”
It started the year you were nine, in the kitchen, when no one came. Since then, every threshold has carried the same quiet test: will this room notice me before I’ve disappeared into it?
The work isn’t to leave faster. It’s to stop auditioning for the people who only listen once you’re halfway out the door.
“You don’t need a louder exit. You need a softer entrance.”
