Abandonment is not stored as a thought. It is stored as a held breath, a braced shoulder, a flinch, a collapse. It lives in the muscles of the jaw and the deep tissue of the psoas. It runs as a background program in the vagus nerve, scanning every face, every silence, every text for signs you're about to be left.
You can name your attachment style. You can quote your therapist. You can understand exactly why your mother's distance shaped you. And still — the moment someone goes quiet on you — your body fires the same alarm it fired when you were four.
This program does not work on the story. It works on the body underneath the story. Slowly. Carefully. In a sequence designed by what we know about how nervous systems actually heal.