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Add Was It? I Had Fun. That Was Fun

Thinking I was dead made me think.

Not about life, not about regrets—no, the first thing that came to mind was how keenly aware I became of how full of shit you are. The kind of hypocrisy that wears honesty like perfume—something sprayed on just before you step out to feel clean, even if you're rotting inside.

You asked me to be honest.

Over and over.

“Just say what you feel.”

But the moment I did, you flinched like I drew blood. Maybe I did. Maybe it’s easier for you to live in polite lies and curated silence. Is it because you’ve spent too long pleasing people that anything unfiltered feels like an attack? Is that why your face twisted the moment I said something too real?

Now I sound like a girl making her own conclusion, right? Drawing meaning from scraps, reading poetry into a blank page.

But don’t turn this into a cliché.

Don’t reduce me to a trope just so you don’t have to feel guilty.

You walked away.

Just like that.

No explanation. No “I’m sorry.” No closure.

Like I was a bad text you forgot to delete. Like I was a name you could erase with a swipe. I thought we had something—not romantically, not even sentimentally—but human. Two people who knew how to see through each other without turning away.

But I was wrong.

And now, here I am, wondering why the fuck I let myself believe otherwise.

You ever hear a flatline?

It's not just a sound. It's a sentence. It’s the universe tapping you on the shoulder and saying, “That’s it.”

I know. Because I heard it once. Hooked to machines, half-conscious, floating somewhere between “almost gone” and “not quite done.” And you know what was louder than the flatline?

Your absence.

That silence where your voice should’ve been. The space you once filled now echoing with the sharp beep of finality.

It’s weird, the shit I almost did when you walked away. I considered stepping in front of a car the other day—not to die, but just so you’d look at me again. Just so you’d break the indifference. Maybe see me bleeding and remember I existed.

Sick, right?

But you don’t know what madness logic turns into when someone you trusted becomes a stranger overnight.

I know I should run. I know the signs. I’ve ignored enough of them to recognize a pattern. But there’s a part of me—pathetic and persistent—that still believes you might explain it all someday. That you’ll walk back in and say, “I just didn’t know how to handle it.”

But that’s not love. That’s trauma reenactment.

I’m not your broken toy. I’m not some side character you can mute when the story shifts.

I was there.

When you broke.

When you lied.

When you laughed like nothing was falling apart even though everything was.

And I didn’t flinch.

I stayed.

So tell me, what was it that made me so disposable?

Was it because I saw you? The unfiltered version—the angry, confused, performative you that even you don’t want to admit exists?

Because here's the truth: you're not a villain.

But you're not a saint either.

You’re human. Flawed. Tired. Trying to be everything for everyone while slowly killing off the parts of yourself that don't fit the narrative.

And I get it. I really do.

But don’t weaponize your wounds to justify silence. Don’t act like ghosting someone is self-care.

It’s cowardice.

You didn’t want a connection. You wanted applause. You didn’t want someone to challenge you. You wanted someone to orbit you without ever pulling you down.

But I don’t orbit. I collide. And maybe that’s why we ended.

You ever think about that?

That maybe I wasn’t meant to stay quiet.

That maybe I wasn’t the wrong person—you were just the wrong version of yourself around me.

We were mirrors. And you hated the reflection.

Now, I’m piecing together meaning from the debris. From our messages, the silence between calls, the way you stopped replying mid-thought like conversations were something to leave behind like old receipts.

And I’m still here, sorting through the scraps.

Not because I miss you.

But because I miss the person I thought you were.

That’s the fucked-up part.

You didn’t even have to lie—you just had to vanish. And I did the rest. I made excuses for you. I filled in the blanks. I wrote a better ending.

But the real ending?

Is this.

Me, whispering to a void. You, pretending none of it meant anything.

Flatline.

You wanted honesty?

Here it is:

You made me want to disappear. Not out of revenge. Not for attention. But because erasing myself felt easier than accepting I didn’t matter to you.

And that kind of invisibility?

It’s violence.

The kind people like you get away with. Because it doesn’t leave bruises.

Just silence.

So here’s the part where I stop waiting.

Where I stop bleeding for someone who flinched at the sight of blood.

You walked away?

Stay gone.

Because I’m done making myself small so other people feel big.

I’m done romanticizing neglect.

And the next time I hear a flatline—it won’t be metaphor.

It’ll be me, finally done explaining myself.

To people who only want honesty if it’s easy to digest.

To frauds dressed like friends.

To you.

Goodbye.