He watched me walk away like the world owed him one last look— like I might turn around and apologize for being unforgettable. his knees kissed concrete while mine were still silk-wrapped and high-heeled, still trembling from the worship he only learned how to offer when it was already too late to matter. he said please like it was a spell, like a word strong enough to pull a woman back from the edge of her own leaving. but I don’t answer to men who call only when they’re beneath me. I gave him everything soft— the quiet parts, the tender parts, the versions of myself that believed love was something we protected together. until I snapped. and now I only give lessons. I warned him that my silence wasn’t mercy. it was the edge of a blade he couldn’t see until it was already cutting him free. he called it love but only when I was on my knees— when devotion looked good on me, when surrender made him feel like a king. he never called it love when I stood up and started calling back the pieces of myself he thought he’d buried. and when the word finally broke from his mouth— please— it sounded like a boy who had just realized his prayers were being answered by the goddess he tried to burn.