Unsent Letter. 🥀🥀

Having this conversation again brought back memories I haven’t really forgotten—ones I thought I deleted when I deleted your number. I still call you my best friend. I still tell people I have a best friend. But nobody knows that I don’t communicate with you anymore, and that I chose distance. And for the first time since I did that i want to talk about it.

You didn’t know why, on January 2nd, 2024, I suddenly told you I wanted you to lose my number while do same. It wasn’t because I hated you. It wasn’t because I didn’t care. I had my reasons—hear me out.

I did because you consume me. My eyes searched for you in every shade of any man I met. My heart beat for you, and I grew jealous of the people who got to have you in ways I never did. We were over, we were friends and when ever i tell you about men in my life, I realise I was just telling you for your approval and a solid distance was what could bring me back to factory reset, and I'm glad you understood even without me saying anything.

Today, I was told the bitter, honest truth: you weren’t interested in me. I didn’t know what to say when I heard these words, All I said was, wow, that hurts. And strangely, it did, it quickly cut deep, I'm sure who said didn't know but as I went upstairs to pick my things i said it to myself again. It was—the word I needed to finally put this down.

I knew I needed to put this down, this is like a burial ceremony to it all, all we had and could have become, this is me finally covering the sand of the crave.

I blamed myself for days. I wondered if I pushed too far, reached too wide, or wanted what I shouldn't have. I told myself the world is a stage and we all play our parts. Maybe my role in your life was always meant to end this way. But it hurts that my role was the one that wasn’t enough.

If I weren’t so eager, if I didn’t want so much, would we have lasted longer? I ask myself this often.

I’ve written about us in many forms, but never with the full understanding that I wasn’t needed. But why sell me a dream you couldn’t afford? Why paint a picture you were too weak to finish?

I wanted you out of my world—and my head. It hurt. I was a cover-up to your real self, a shift in your personality. You knew I wouldn’t judge you, yet you kept me in the dark. And the way you told me—after I had already made a fool of myself—hurt the most.

I wanted what you made me believe we both wanted. Suddenly, I became the innocent child, blamed for believing.

This is me letting go. I’ll never tell anyone I have a best friend. Because you are the past. Maybe someone else will know you—not as a person, but as a memory I’ve chosen to digest.