#0417

I meant every word when I told him not to contact me anymore, because I knew it was the only way to stop this from continuing, the only way to step out of something that kept circling back to the same place.

But the moment things quiet down, at work, in between my hobbies, in the spaces where there is nothing left to fill my mind, I start questioning it. Why doesn’t he fight for me? Why am I the one forcing distance while he remains untouched by it, still texting, still saying he misses me, without ever choosing me in any real way.

If he doesn’t feel that deeply, then why is he still here? And if he does, then why is it still not enough for him to do something about it?

Can he not tell, or does he simply not think it matters.

Because if he came to me and said he wanted me, if he told me he loved me and was willing to try, properly, I know I would go back. That is the part I cannot soften, the part I hate admitting because it makes everything so simple.

I would choose him again.

I would still find myself next to him, my hands in his hair as he drifts to sleep, easing the weight off his shoulders after long days, kissing him in the quiet of the morning, standing across the tennis court from him again like nothing had ever broken between us.

And then he says things like he will never delete me, that he has never cleared our chats even though he has done it for others, and I am expected to treat those words as nothing, to pretend they do not reach me, do not make me feel set apart, even for a moment, even if I know better than to believe in it.

And I know what I am doing too. I see it clearly. I keep finding reasons to stay, convincing myself that if we keep talking, if we keep meeting, if I remain present long enough, something in him will shift, that one day he will realise and finally want this in the way I have always wanted it.

But nothing changes. He does not choose me.

I know this is not a movie, even if it sounds like one when I say it out loud. I know this is not a movie because there is nothing romantic about this kind of pain, nothing beautiful about wanting someone who will not meet you where you are, nothing fictional about the way my chest tightens when I realise that loving him has always felt like asking for something he never intended to give.

After everything I have told myself, after all the reasons I know this will not work, after all the ways I have tried to leave with some sense of dignity intact, there is a part of me that keeps returning to the same quiet, unbearable truth,

He made me break my promise.

I think that is what unsettles me lately.

Words were never something I treated lightly. I wanted to be someone who meant what she said, someone who could stand by her own words without hesitation, without doubt, without needing to take them back. When I told him I wanted to marry him, when I said I wanted a future with him, when I said he was the only person I had ever truly loved, I meant all of it in a way that felt certain, almost irreversible, as if saying it was already a kind of commitment in itself.

I did not say those things carelessly.

I did not say them because they sounded nice, or because they were expected.

I said them because I believed them.

And I tried to live in a way that honoured them.

But in the end, I was the one who had to let go.

The one who had to step away from everything I had once said I would hold onto.

And somehow, that feels like a quiet kind of betrayal, not just of him, but of myself.

He always believed that words were cheap.

That they could be said without meaning, that they carried no real weight, that they were easily given and easily taken back.

And I really wanted to prove him wrong.

I wanted to show him that words could be something else entirely, that they could hold truth, that they could carry intention, that they could be lived out, not just spoken.

But now, standing here, having broken the very things I once promised, it feels like I have only proven him right.

As if everything I said was temporary after all.

As if my words did not last.

And I hate that. I hate that something I held so sacred now feels like evidence for a belief I never agreed with. I want to argue against it, to insist that he is wrong, that words are not meaningless, that they are only as strong as the person who speaks them. But I cannot change the way he sees the world. He will continue believing what he always has.

And somehow, he walks away unchanged.

Still convinced that words are cheap.

While I am left carrying the weight of mine.

Because to me, they were never just words.

And even now, after everything has ended, they do not feel any lighter.

HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO!

literally forgot to post this last night because i just fell asleep right after, umm.. i just wanted to draw pachirisu in a dress tbh