CUPCAKESblog 2.0

There’s this cutie (shhh, just friends… maybe 🤭) who’s been making my little side feel so special lately. He picked out a stuffie for me, for my birthday! and even though I don’t have him yet, he’s been sending me updates from all his travels with him like he’s already mine. 🧸💕

The stuffie rides on planes, raiding hotel minibars, and gets tucked safely away so he doesn’t get lost. And every update makes me feel like I’m right there too, being thought of and cared for in the sweetest little ways.

He didn’t have to do any of this. But he does. Naturally. Softly. Like caregiving is in his bones. He’s the kind of Daddy who doesn’t need to be told how, it just pours out of him. The best kind. 🥰

It makes me feel soft and giddy and warm all over. Like I’m being wrapped in a hug I didn’t know I needed. Like my name might actually mean something to him. Like I matter.

It’s golden and glowy and feels like pure sunlight in my chest.

I don’t know if he even realizes how much he’s doing. But I do. And I cannot wait for Seattle. I already know we’re gonna laugh so hard our tummies hurt and smile until we’re glowing. ✨

So this is my goodbye for now. Not because I don’t care, but because I do. caring makes me fragile. waiting feels like dying in slow motion.

It eats at me from the inside out,

this disorder,

this shadow with my face.

It builds walls,

then sets them on fire.

It whispers sabotage

in the back of my skull

leave before they leave,

hurt before you’re hurt.

I want to love clean,

but my hands are covered in glass.

Every touch cuts.

Every silence shatters me

like I’ve lived this ending a thousand times.

The damage is slow,

but relentless.

It weighs heavy in my chest,

like lungs full of wet cement.

Even joy feels temporary,

borrowed,

already breaking.

I am tired of rehearsing goodbyes

in the middle of a hello.

Tired of burying myself

while I’m still breathing.

Tired of dragging this anchor

that calls itself me.

Do you know what this does to me?

To my chest?

To my fucking sanity?

One missed call or text and I’m spiraling.

One silence

and I’m already

burying myself alive.

I don’t beg anymore.

I don’t plead.

I just wait for the sting,

the empty space,

the confirmation of everything

I’ve already rehearsed in my head.

I keep telling myself

not to care,

not to chase,

not to feel this cut

like it’s the first time

but my body remembers every wound.

Every absence

lands the same.

So go.

Walk.

Run.

I expect it.

I’m already bracing

Silence isn’t quiet

it’s a weight,

a boulder on my chest

pressing down,

pressing in,

telling me you’re gone

before you even leave.

One unanswered text

and suddenly I’m drowning

lungs full of panic,

heart clawing at the cage of my ribs,

every second stretched

into proof

that I’m too much,

not enough,

already abandoned.

So I sharpen my escape plan.

Run before you run.

Leave before you leave.

Burn the bridge myself

so I don’t have to watch

you set the match.

That’s the trick, right?

Make the cut first,

pretend it doesn’t bleed.

Pretend the silence

doesn’t eat me alive.

Pretend I don’t carry

a graveyard of goodbyes

inside my chest.

But God

I do.

And every pause,

every gap,

every little nothing between us

feels like the end