It’s strange how someone can break your heart without ever meaning to. Or maybe they did mean to, I don’t know anymore. All I know is that it hurts in this deep, dull way, like grief that doesn’t have a grave to belong to.
I’m angry because I loved carefully. Because I never once meant harm. Because every word I said came from a place of wanting to understand. And somehow, that wasn’t enough. Somehow, I became the villain in someone else’s story while I was still trying to write them into mine.
I’m angry because the things I trusted them with, the insecurities I whispered like confessions, became something for them to mock. I would never have done that. Not even when I hated them most. There’s a certain cruelty in being betrayed by the person you’d defend to the end.
I keep thinking, is this how they used to be when they were younger? That mean streak they talked about, the one they swore they grew out of, is that what I’m seeing now? Because it feels familiar, like an old wound they promised they’d never open again.
I keep thinking about the small things. The late-night calls, the way I’d check in even when I was barely holding myself together, the way I believed that being kind was enough to make someone stay. I thought loyalty meant something. I thought promises were supposed to last.
Now, everything feels like a memory that doesn’t know how to die. I’ll be fine during the day, I’ll smile, talk, and move on, but then it hits me out of nowhere, this ache that crawls up my throat. The kind that makes you want to scream, but all that comes out is a whisper.
I’m angry because I let them see me. Every scar, every quiet breakdown, every bit of softness I’ve spent years trying to protect, and they took it as weakness. They took it and threw it back like it was nothing.
And it’s not even the act itself, it’s what it means. It means they never saw me. Not really. Not the person who stayed, who listened, who forgave again and again. They saw the convenience of me. The comfort. The version that didn’t ask for much.
It’s not even anger that I feel now. It’s just exhaustion. I’m tired of being the one who explains, who apologizes, who tries to make things right when I didn’t break them in the first place.
I hate that I’m this upset. I hate that my chest feels like it’s going to cave in when I think about it. I hate that they made me feel disposable, like all the things I did came with an expiration date I didn’t know about.
I keep thinking I’ll calm down. That I’ll wake up one morning and feel indifferent. But the truth is, I’m angry because I cared too much. And when you care too much, and someone treats it like nothing, that’s the kind of thing that rearranges you.
I wanted peace. Closure. Maybe even forgiveness. But instead, I’m standing here with shaking hands, trying to understand how someone can take love that pure and turn it into something ugly.
Sometimes I catch myself missing them, and it makes me feel pathetic. Like I’m clinging to a ghost of who they were, or who I thought they were. There’s this version of them I still hold in my head, kind and safe and gentle, and it feels cruel that it doesn’t exist anymore.
Mostly, I just wish it didn’t hurt to remember. I wish I could look back and feel nothing. But I do. I feel everything. Every word, every silence, every time I stayed up hoping they’d say something that would fix it.
And I know I’ll heal. I know time softens even the sharpest things. But right now? It just feels like loss. A quiet kind. And I’m done being that person. I kept thinking if I stayed soft enough, the world would stop cutting, but softness only made a better target.
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