the quiet architect

A reflective look at walking away from what no longer serves.

I used to think love was weather — stormy, dramatic, romantic in its ruin. But toxicity? Toxicity is urban smog. Always present, rarely named. You only notice it once you’ve left town and can breathe again.

I left by walking.
Not literally — at first.
I stopped over-explaining.
I stopped shrinking to fit the space they were willing to give.
I stopped asking questions I already knew they wouldn't answer.

Eventually, the body catches up to the soul’s decision.

And when you finally go, it’s not loud.
It’s not revenge.
It’s not even vindication.

It’s something stranger: peace with not being understood.
A quiet exit.
A boulevard turned alley, then dust.

And you walk on.

"To leave a toxic entanglement is to walk — slowly, painfully — without a map, trusting only your gut and the rhythm of your steps." 

The City That Stops Answering: 

Some endings don’t explode. They drain — like a slow leak in the walls of a home you thought could hold you.

You keep showing up. You keep answering. But eventually, the silence on the other end of the line isn’t just quiet — it’s strategic. You begin to realize: this isn’t absence, it’s leverage. 

There’s a kind of toxicity that doesn’t scream. It sighs. It shrugs. It forgets to ask you how your day went, again. And again. And again. The cruelty hides in convenience. In tone. In tactical indifference.
And like bad architecture, you only notice the cracks when you lean your weight on it.

PERUSING NORTHLESS

-notes on drift, distance, & discovery-

Wander long enough, and even the sidewalk forgets its symmetry