#lemonsunset

Enough.

Sincerely,

isn’t that he’s with her.

It’s that my mind keeps inventing scenes

I was never invited into.

Not because I wanted them desperately,

but because I wanted them carefully.

I wanted slowness.

Tenderness.

A beginning that didn’t feel like a transaction.

And somehow that became

the thing I lost.

So now my brain punishes me with comparisons

what she gets, what I never touched,

what stayed imaginary long enough

to feel sacred.

But the truth is uglier and simpler:

Nothing was stolen from me.

Nothing was owed.

A door just didn’t open.

And I keep standing in front of it,

I wanted to write. I craved writing. But then I got scared.

Scared of you reading it. Scared that this feeling, this quiet battle I’m carrying, would become public, not to everyone, but to you.

That you would recognize yourself in it.

I can’t risk that. So here I am, sharing these words under anonymity.

I dream of us sometimes, sitting again, watching the sun disappear, not at the cliff, but under a tree, hiding from the world and our fears.

It’s not love that makes the moment heavy, it’s the future that has already said no.

Then everything goes dark.

and still, look at me scrolling for his echoes, hunting his replies, his lines, asking if they reached him, if his eyes ever touched them

what is he thinking? what will he say?

will he recognize himself inside these syllables? will he feel himself in these vowels, recognize the outline of his name? did any syllable bruise him the way his absence bruises me? will he recognize me the pulse behind the words, behind the feelings? will he feel me the hand that shakes behind each sentence, the heart spelling him again and again like prayer?

A small habit, a whole life unraveling…

I once spent a whole day with him. He sat facing me, scanning my face like he was reading a book, and then he smiled. “You’re really different,” he said, smirking like he’d uncovered a secret.

“What? How?” I asked.

“Like… really different. Not like the others.”

“What do you mean?”

“We literally spent the entire day together, and you didn’t check your reflection once. Not in a mirror, not in your phone screen, not in a shop window, nothing.”

“Really? I didn’t even notice.”

“Is it because you’re with me, or is that a you-thing?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never noticed it in myself. But I can give you credit for today , you kept me busy with your drama and sarcasm,” I said, trying to flirt, trying to turn it into something playful.  I took it as a compliment , or at least that’s what I thought, what I felt in that moment.

That was the first time anyone ever pointed it out. And it stuck.

Because I used to check. All the time.  Every mirror, every dark car window, every reflection in passing glass.  I used to feel good, or at least try to. Adjusting hair, fixing a collar, smoothing lipstick, anything to keep the illusion alive.

“It’s because I’m more confident now,” I told myself.  Lie.

I hid the truth behind that lie.  “I don’t need to check. I’m beautiful as I am. I love myself no matter how I look.”  Another lie. And I knew it.

That old version of me ,  the girl who overflowed with life and small joys , she adored her reflection. She loved to catch herself in mirrors, to say silently, this is me, I’m proud of this. She couldn’t stop looking, because she liked who she saw.

Not anymore.  Now I avoid mirrors because they show me everything I don’t want to see:  the sadness stamped into my face,  the pale skin,  the hooded eyes with dark bruises underneath,  the thin body, the dry skin creased before its time.

Those eyes.  Those eyes that used to shine now just accuse me, whispering failure!

I don’t love myself. Not my appearance, not my situation, not my life.  I’ve tried ,  new clothes, makeup, filters, perfect lighting ,  nothing worked.  I don’t like the girl in the pictures either.

So, slowly, I found relief in neglect.  I stopped checking.  Stopped taking photos.  Stopped trying to fix what felt unfixable.

“Confidence?” No.  It was about self-love since day one.  And now?  Another lie to hide behind:  “I’m too old for this detail. Too busy for makeup. Just comfy clothes, nothing more.”

How pitiful.  One tiny habit can reveal an entire life unraveling.

What looks like self-love can also be hiding self-loss…

i didn’t touch him.

i don’t know what to say. he was here. sitting next to me. breathing the same air. but i froze.

he mentioned the lemon cheesecake. i forgot how to swallow. did he read my letters? the ones i never meant for eyes? no, i don’t think so. i hope not. god, i hope not.

he called himself the husband-to-be. he said it like a joke. i felt it like a knife.

because it’s all i ever wanted. him. but i stood there. no hug. no kiss. not even the safety of a casual touch.

and the truth? i wanted to kiss him until my lips split and my lungs gave up. i wanted to bury every ache into his collarbone and pretend the world outside didn’t exist.

but i did nothing. i couldn’t.

because it’s safer this way. for me.

i told him i didn’t want anything. no relationship. especially not with him. especially not him.

because with someone else, i can brace for betrayal. i won’t crack, because i’ll never hand them the softest pieces of me.

but with him… with my lemonsunset… if he ever lied, if he ever left, i’d never recover. i’d lose everything... the dream, the softness, the version of him i loved without needing him to earn it.

and once that version dies, no one else will ever stand a chance again.

so it’s better this way. to break my own heart before he ever gets the chance.

It’s sad.

I should have known from day one.

We both loved lemon cheesecake; sour and sweet, baby. Just like us.

It’s sad because when I was with you, all I could think about was him. And now, all I think about is you.

I lost you, my LemonSunset. You were so precious. I loved you without even realizing it. I had no idea how much you meant to me.

All those feelings I felt beside you, the way I laughed, the way I breathed, the way I existed. The version of me next to you... I loved that girl.

She was full of life. Yet empty in so many ways.

You used to say my life was full of drama. Unlike yours. I felt ashamed then, as if I were burdening you with my chaos.

“Use me,” you said.

I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I felt small. Weak. Undeserving. Like I was nothing. Like I didn’t deserve anything. Especially not your love.

Yet, it was all I needed.

But I knew, baby. I knew you’d leave too. I saw it coming. The same story, playing out again.

And I couldn’t bear it. Not again. Not from you.