It’s not pride.
It’s not revenge.
It’s not even satisfaction.
It’s weight.
The quiet kind — the kind you carry in your chest when you knew, and no one believed you.
When you saw what others couldn’t, and they called you dramatic, or naive, or unwell.
You weren’t any of those things.
You were just early.
Too early.
And so you lived in that liminal space —
between the truth you felt like fire
and the silence of a world that didn’t want to see it yet.
Then… they did.
They came around, slowly, awkwardly, as if they had discovered something new.
But you had been bleeding that truth for months.
You had paid for it with nights of doubt, arguments, loneliness, and restraint.
You had to protect your knowing without turning it into bitterness.
That’s not easy.
This isn’t a victory.
This isn’t an "I told you so."
This is grief mixed with grace.
Because you never wanted to be right —
you just wanted to be heard.