There’s a battlefield in my chest tonight. Not with guns or swords just memories. Two ghosts with living faces, each holding a claim to what’s left of me. One built the map of my girlhood, knew my laugh before it found its rhythm. The other kissed my becoming, turned my silence into a language. Both broke something. One cracked it slow years of trust turned brittle. The other shattered it quick a truth dropped mid-heartbeat. And here I stand, hands trembling over two open wounds, knowing I’ll bandage both. Because forgiveness isn’t logic it’s habit, and I’ve been bleeding generosity since birth. But if I pick one first… what does that say about the way I love? That history outranks devotion? That romance burns brighter than roots? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll forgive the one whose voice I can still bear to hear when the world goes quiet. Or maybe the one whose absence would hollow me faster. Either way, someone will think it means I’ve chosen sides. But I haven’t. I’ve only chosen survival. And sometimes that means forgiving everyone but myself.