They say, "You should come around more, and I smile, Because it's easier than explaining why I don't. Some wounds don't bleed anymore, but they still ache the second you walk back into the room where they were made. It's not that I hate my family. It's that something in me shrinks when I'm there, like I'm stepping back into a version of myself I fought hard to outgrow. They don't see how old memories press against my ribs while everyone passes the food like nothing ever happened. Inside, I'm bracing for something I can't even name. It's a different kind of pain when the people who shaped you are also the ones you're still trying to recover from. I don't hate them. I just can't heal in the same place that taught me how to survive.