I kept only the earrings and the scars

I Kept Only the Earrings and the Scars

Returning to Germany was never supposed to feel like this—both freeing and heavy at once. The streets, the buildings, even the air seem to whisper memories I tried so hard to leave behind. The memories of him.

He was a man who thrived on confusion, a master at manipulation. His words were traps, laid out like a web that I always seemed to stumble into, unable to free myself. His voice was not one of love but of control. He convinced me that I was the problem, that I couldn’t trust my own thoughts, let alone anyone else. He isolated me in a world of his own making, where the only truth I knew was his.

Leaving him was like ripping myself free from chains I didn’t even realize had been binding me. It took time to see those chains for what they were. And though I’m free now, the scars remain, faint but permanent reminders of what once was. Emotional wounds don’t show as easily as physical ones, but they’re just as real, aren’t they?

Over the years, I let go of the physical remnants of that relationship one by one. I burned, sold or threw away every reminder—every gift, every letter, every photo that tethered me to a past I no longer wanted. All but one thing: a pair of earrings. Small, delicate, ironically beautiful. They were an early gift from him, back when I still believed in his lies, back when I thought he loved me. I kept them not as a keepsake of him, but as a testament to my own survival. A reminder that I can carry beauty from the past, even from the darkest chapters.

What’s strange is that I’m back in the same house. The same walls, the same rooms where so much pain unfolded. I can still see the places where fights occurred, where tears were spilled, where he would sit stoically, artfully questioning me, his voice calm while my chest tightened to the point I thought I would faint. He was cold and calculated, never mind how close I was to breaking. The memories are vivid, but they no longer hold the same power.

Despite all of that, I still love this home. It’s strange, I know, but over time, I’ve made better, happier memories here—ones that have reclaimed the space for me. This home isn’t haunted anymore. I’ve filled it with warmth, love, and laughter, and it feels like mine again. The shadows of the past are still here, but they’ve been eclipsed by light.

The scars? They’re still there too, of course, but they’ve healed. They no longer ache. I can touch them without flinching now, though I’ll never forget how they got there. I’ll never forget what it felt like to be so small, to be made to feel like I wasn’t enough, that I wasn’t capable of being loved without control.

But this time, I’ve come back to Germany with a different kind of love. A man who knows how to build, not destroy. Someone who doesn’t need to tear me down to feel powerful but lifts me up in a way that makes me believe in myself again. He loves me for who I am, not for who he can mold me into. And he continues to win my heart, piece by piece, every day.

I kept only the earrings and the scars. But even those are part of a story that’s no longer about him. It’s about me, and it’s about love—real love, the kind that heals rather than harms. And as I wear these earrings and look around this house, I know I’ve reclaimed my strength.