Closing the Door Gently

I have been thinking about what I would say if someone came back and asked me why I left.

I would want to explain it calmly. I am choosing to close the door. I am choosing to put the book down because the story no longer does it for me.

That is harder to say when I still care about the person. It would almost be easier if I were angry—if there were one terrible moment I could point to and say, There. That is why. But sometimes what changes is quieter than that. I keep turning the pages and realize I am no longer finding what I hoped to find.

I can care about someone and still be honest about that. I can remember what was good without asking it to carry a future it cannot hold.

I think I used to imagine that leaving required some final, undeniable reason. Something I could explain so well that the other person would understand, agree with me, and let me go. But I may never get that kind of ending. They might remember the story differently. They might think there are still pages worth reading.

I have to respect that without losing sight of what I know.

Closing the door gently does not mean I am unsure. It does not mean I am waiting outside it, hoping someone will ask me back in. It means I do not need to turn my disappointment into anger to trust my decision.

I do not have to slam a door to close it. I do not have to rip out the pages to admit I do not want to finish the book.

Maybe we shared something meaningful. Maybe I learned things about myself while we were in each other’s lives. Those things can remain true, even if this is where I stop.

So if they ask me why, I hope I can tell the truth without trying to wound them or make them agree. I cared. I tried to understand where the story was going. And somewhere along the way, I realized I could not keep reading it simply because I once wanted to know how it would end.

The book can remain unfinished.