My phone lights up.
Heart’s pounding before my brain can catch up.
It's you.
It's been a while.
I tried to give myself closure.
It's a skill I still haven't mastered.
But seeing your name again still splits me open.
Same as always.
I note this with some embarrassment.
My brain starts bombarding me:
Was it fake?
Did I imagine it?
Was I discarded?
Did I lose?
Am I still wanted?
Should I care?
Why do I care?
[Order. There will be order.]
The house is now in session.
We will get to the bottom of this.
Petty Child: LOL. I won. You blinked first. Text him “you lose, big fat loser” and block him before he can say a word.
Hopeful Me: Wait. Just wait. Maybe he realised something. Maybe he's changed. Maybe he just needs a friend.
Angry Me: A friend. A friend?! He thought he'd find someone better, got a reality check, and now he’s back here expecting me to be some sort of consolation prize?
My Ego: Let me at him!
Elegant Me: This requires no acknowledgement.
Vengeful Me: ...or I agree to meet him. That café furthest side of town. And simply don't show up. Ohh… he’d be so pissed!
[Order. Nobody listens.]
I get close to forgetting you exist.
But that bastard has a sixth sense.
He always knows when to pop his stupid little face back in.
A like on my latest post.
That's all it takes.
I spill out again.
The session reconvenes.
Logic (enters with a clipboard): Based on the evidence before the House, you are experiencing intermittent reinforcement-…
Hope: He loves me.
Logic: There is no evidence to support-…
Hope Denial: SHUT UP.
Fear: What if nobody ever makes us feel like this again?
Logic: Intensity is not the same thing as-…
Grief: NO!
Logic: Could somebody let me finish?
Petty Child: Oh, like he did?
Anger: Funny. That didn’t matter to him
Little Me (covering her ears): Stop shouting…
I don’t like this.
Grief: This can’t be the end.
Fear: He’s never coming back.
Hope: He came back.
Fear: Not really, we are going to die alone.
Little Me: I thought we were friends.
Hope: He texted.
Logic: A message is not a-…
Ego: Objection!
Angry Me: He thinks we’re stupid.
Petty Child: Motion to call him a loser.
Vengeful Me: Seconded.
Little Me: I thought you liked me.
Don't leave.
I’ll be good.
[Silence.]
Grief (throws itself against the walls):
No.
NO!
Not after all that intensity.
Not after everything it woke up in me.
Please don’t let this be the end.
Please…
I watch them fight from the gallery.
I cannot pick a side.
I cannot choose a narrative.
Somewhere in the middle of the noise I realise:
it stopped being about him about three motions ago.
It’s the humiliation of still being emotionally rearranged by ghosting at thirty-four.
Underneath it: an identity crisis.
Shouldn’t I be beyond this by now?
It should look like: “I wish him well.” while sipping my tea unbothered.
Shame: Pull yourself together.
People will think you’re crazy, if they knew the full extent of this session…
Acceptance (shrugs): Sure.
They probably will.
I mean… look at all of this.
But also look at you.
You still went to work. You cried and kept working.
You had a full psychological constitutional crisis and still remembered the wet laundry.
You smuggled vegetables into your kid’s lunch.
You nearly collapsed into existential despair and still sprinted after the bin lorry with one shoe half on.
You dissociated in the kitchen and still didn’t burn the onions.
That’s not nothing.
Surprisingly competent, all things considered.
I stay defiant.
I don't know what else to do with myself.
I notice I am hungry.
The mood swings of my upcoming cycle
are not helping.
Not a good time to act.
I eat something.
I don't remember what.
Probably cereal straight from the box.
So I eat absent-mindedly.
Leaning over the counter,
checking the last message again,
in case I missed a hook,
an angle,
a reason.
I didn't miss anything.
I snort.
It's almost poetic.
Your performative apology,
hopefully awaiting approval in "Message Requests"
wedged between horny strangers and obvious scams.
I’ll be honest.
There’s another version of this story.
One where we meet again.
I test you.
Let you try your oldest tricks.
See how well you really know me.
See whether I still fold under your attention.
But I don’t.
You don’t have that power anymore.
The healer in me looks at you and says, gently:
“When you get sick of yourself, come find me. I’ll help you find your way.”
Maybe that’s arrogant.
Maybe I’m not the one who saves you.
Maybe I’m the one who needs saving, from the idea that I could.
Maybe I just need to believe I meant something permanent to you.
That somewhere beneath all your running,
you know I could have loved you properly.
I was never very good at giving up on people.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Or maybe this is just another way of asking you not to give up on me.
Or maybe…
it’s me learning not to give up on myself.
For a second, you soften.
For a second, you sound honest.
You say that’s what you want now.
But Pride steps forward at last.
Quiet, almost unnoticed:
Not yet.
Because I want your respect more than your return.
And the only way to get it
is to leave
before I start calling chaos fate again.
The House adjourns.
The parliament quiets.
They file out one by one,
still muttering,
still unresolved,
the way these things always end.
My tea goes cold.
Nobody wins.