I did it.

I left the group.

Not out of rage. Not to prove a point.

But out of something quieter, heavier—exhaustion.

And maybe, just maybe, a tiny hope that someone would notice.

That someone would say:

“Wait… what’s wrong?”

“Why are you leaving?”

“Please stay.”

But all I got was silence.

No flood of messages.

No call.

No “we miss you already.”

And in that silence,

I finally heard the truth I’d been avoiding:

They let me go—because I was never truly held.

I was the fifth wheel, the outsider tagging along.

Present, but never quite part of it.

And I didn’t want to believe that.

I hoped my absence would shake something loose.

That they’d reach for me. That they’d care enough to pull me back in.

But they didn’t.

And that…

That broke me more than anything else ever did.

Not because they were bad people.

Maybe they just didn’t know how to see me.

Maybe I’d been invisible for so long,

they forgot I was ever really there.

But I saw it then.

With aching clarity.

And still—

through the grief,

the doubt,

the weight of what could’ve been—

This was the first time I truly chose myself.

Even if no one came after me.