Jada stared at the text Micah sent her a month ago: “You should move on.”
She’d read it so many times it had lost meaning. The words didn’t sting anymore. They just sat there — heavy, tired, and final.
She couldn’t delete it.
Because deleting it meant accepting it was over.
And she wasn’t ready.
Her bedroom felt like a graveyard for could-have-beens. The scent of Micah still lingered on a hoodie she refused to wash. The playlists they made together looped softly in the background. Her body moved through the world, but her heart hadn’t left the moment he walked away.
Jada curled up on her unmade bed, clutching a pillow like it could anchor her to something real. Her chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped out all the good and left just the ache.
Why do I always end up here?
Her phone buzzed. Not Micah.
It never was.
She tossed it aside and pulled out an old shoebox from under her bed. Inside were letters, photos, birthday cards — all from men who had come and gone. Some had stayed long enough to pretend. Others barely remembered her name.
But there was a pattern.
They all left.
And they all reminded her of him. Not Micah. Her father.
The man who taught her absence before he taught her love.
Her eyes fell on a photo from her sixth birthday. She was sitting on the porch, face tilted toward the driveway, cake untouched. She had waited all day for him. Her mom eventually cut the cake without him.
He’d called three days later. Said something came up.
Something always did.
Jada held the picture close to her chest, sobs breaking through. The kind that scraped your insides raw. She cried for the little girl who waited, and for the woman still waiting — not for her father this time, but for someone else to make her feel worthy.
“Why do I love men who leave?” she whispered to no one.
Maybe because it was the only kind of love she’d ever been taught.
Baawa Unfiltered 