This world is f***ed : The epitome of self-destruction

She doesn’t say “I’m sorry.”

Not for the yelling.

Not for the things she said when she was angry.

Not for the silent treatment that lasted days.

Not for the way her love sometimes felt like a game of hot and cold.

She just starts being nice again.

Like nothing happened.

Like I’m supposed to be grateful the storm is over

without ever acknowledging the damage it left behind.

I used to take it.

I used to be so relieved for the warmth, for the return to normal, that I’d let the pain stay buried just to keep the peace.

But peace without accountability isn’t peace.

It’s silence.

It’s suppression.

It’s pretending I’m okay just so she doesn’t feel uncomfortable.

And I think that’s what hurts the most— not the fight itself, but the way she skips over the part where my feelings were supposed to matter.

Because I didn’t need her to be perfect.

I just needed her to say, “That hurt you. I see that. I’m sorry.”

But instead, I got a smile.

A sudden act of kindness.

A shift back to normal like nothing ever happened.

And the older I get, the more I realize that love without responsibility isn’t the kind of love I want to pass down.

So no, I don’t need an apology to keep going.

But I do deserve one.