Notes I'll Never Send

shower thoughts at midnight

♪('▽｀)

I don't think we ever really move on. Not fully. Not the way people say with their chins high and their hearts bandaged.

I think... we just learn to live with it. With experiences that were once beautiful, now branded bittersweet. Moments that tattoo themselves onto our souls for the rest of this strange, mortal existence.

And I know— somebody's reading this thinking, "What the hell is this girl on about?" Isn't there, like, a whole science behind this? Insert the five stages of grief. Or whatever Freud said.

Maybe I'm way in over my head. But this— this is a raw, messy, real kind of truth.

I'm a lover girl. But I also think love is dead. A hopeless romantic... who's absolutely terrified of the deep end.

Three months in. That little situationship? It was giving movie scene. Attraction. Arguments. Red flags dressed like roses. But it was imperfectly perfect. Until the ball dropped.

You know the story— but not like this.

Turns out... they were never really over their ex. But they liked you. But they didn't know what the hell was going on inside their own head. And soon... they go back to the ex. Fully. Dialed in.

And you— you get cut off like dead weight. Because now the "soulmate" (the ex, by the way) is uncomfortable with your name still echoing in their orbit.

And you look like a fool. Not universal enough to be cliché, but painfully common for those who know.

Maybe I should call it: "The inevitable experience of yearning for someone who was already enraptured with another."

Catchy, huh?

And what do you have to show for all this? Just silence. A couple of text threads you can't delete. Memories that show up uninvited. A version of love that only existed in your head.

And maybe you're still wondering— M, what's your point? What does this even have to do with moving on?

Well... I don't think "moving on" is a thing. Like a final destination people get to. You don't wake up and think, "Ah yes, today is the day I am healed." Nah.

It's not conscious. It's a reflex. A slow dissolve.

You cry. You overthink. You reread the messages. You resent. You live.

That's the point.

You can read the messages now— and not feel stupid, just... nostalgic. You can cry— but let the reason you walked away hold more weight than why you wanted to stay.

You can ache. You can want. You can grieve. But you'll still breathe.

Because maybe they weren't what you imagined. Maybe you weren't either. Maybe the version in your head was never meant to last.

And these... these are the things I clocked three months later— in the shower, at midnight, with Ivy playing quietly behind the sound of my regret.