#noana

Dear Ana,

You slipped into my life quietly five years ago. Like a whisper at first, then a storm. You didn’t even show your full face until years later, and by then you’d already woven yourself into my thoughts, pretending you belonged there.

You told me you were helping.

You told me you were saving me.

You said you were the only one who understood.

But now I see what you really were:

The wild in a sheep’s costume.

You stole my hunger, smile, laughter.

You took my time, my peace, my sense of being enough.

You wrapped your fingers around my mind and called it “control,” when all along you were the one controlling me.

Yes, I’ll admit it.

Through you I discovered things.

Hobbies. Rituals. A strange sort of focus.

But even that feels twisted now, because you never gave me anything freely.

Everything came with a hook in it.

You were a manipulator.

A liar.

A voice that grew louder every time I grew weaker.

And I’m angry.

So angry at how deeply I let you dig into me, angry that you convinced me I needed you, only you, angry that you made me fear the life I deserve.

But here’s the truth you never wanted me to learn:

I was always the strong one.

I was always the one surviving.

I was always the one carrying the weight — even when you insisted I should carry nothing at all.

I’m healing now. Not perfectly. Not every day. But enough.

Enough to recognize your tricks, enough to feel your grip loosening, enough to reclaim the space inside me that you once tried to hollow out.

I’m writing this letter because I’m done pretending you were ever a friend.

You were a cage.

And I’m breaking out of you piece by piece, breath by breath.

You don’t get to define me anymore.

You don’t get to speak louder than me.

You don’t get to shrink me into a ghost of myself.

I’m angry, yes but I’m also alive.

And you can’t have that anymore.

Not yours,

Not ever again,

I am you, but you aren’t me.