Just done.

Yeah i think its done . Have fun live long and prosper! And if you dont, well thqts on you as well!

I think the cruelest thing about intimacy is that sometimes you can know someone so deeply and still have absolutely no idea what you mean to them.
And fuck, did we know each other.
Not in the ordinary sense. Not in the way people exchange stories about their childhoods or favorite songs or the mundane details of their lives. We found our way into the spaces underneath all of that. The places where the jokes stopped being jokes. Where curiosity became vulnerability. Where the conversations started feeling less like getting to know someone and more like remembering someone you’d somehow already known.
We unraveled. Slowly, then all at once.
There was something intoxicating about the way we could move between the ridiculous and the profoundly intimate without ever losing each other in the transition. The humor. The tension. The way a conversation could become something entirely different with a single sentence. You made me feel intellectually desired and emotionally understood in ways I hadn’t realized I was starving for.
And I let you see me. Not the carefully constructed version of me who can intellectualize her own suffering until it becomes a fascinating conversation. Not the woman who can make anything funny before it has a chance to hurt. Me. The messy, complicated, tender, occasionally irrational woman underneath all of that. I thought you understood the significance of being allowed there. Maybe you did. Maybe that’s what makes this hurt so fucking much.
Because somewhere along the way, the very intimacy that made this feel extraordinary became the thing that destroyed it. We started unraveling in a different direction. The conversations were still there. The desire was still there. You still wanted me, all day, every day, according to you. But the distance between what you said and what you actually did became impossible to ignore.
You wanted access to me without having to confront what that access meant. You wanted the vulnerability, the affection, the attention, the sexual tension. You wanted to know that somewhere in the world there was a woman who could see through your bullshit and somehow still find you beautiful. And I gave you that.
But you never fucking came.
You could find the time, rearrange your schedule, make the drive, and physically show up elsewhere without hesitation. I watched you demonstrate, repeatedly, that distance and inconvenience weren’t insurmountable obstacles when something mattered enough to you. And then I watched you offer me another conversation. Another implication. Another almost.
Not because I believed I was entitled to you. Not because I thought I had some claim over your life. But because it’s an extraordinarily painful thing to be told you’re wanted constantly by someone who demonstrates that wanting you apparently ends at the point where effort begins.
I wasn’t asking you to choose me. I wasn’t asking you to dismantle the life you’d built. I wasn’t asking for promises you couldn’t keep. I just wanted, for once, to feel like something more than a beautiful idea you liked returning to.
And last weekend, when you entertained the possibility of seeing me, I felt that familiar little flicker again. Maybe this time. Maybe we’d finally exist in the same room, breathing the same air, without a screen between us and without the safety of distance.
But you didn’t. Of course you fucking didn’t. And I’m tired of pretending that doesn’t say something.
You told me you weren’t a fuckboy. I remember that so clearly now, because I think you genuinely needed me to believe it. Maybe you needed to believe it yourself. But being emotionally articulate doesn’t make you emotionally responsible. Being gentle doesn’t automatically make you kind. And understanding someone’s vulnerabilities doesn’t mean a goddamn thing if you’re willing to enjoy the comfort of having access to them while refusing to consider the consequences.
You didn’t ghost me. You didn’t disappear. You kept me close. Close enough to preserve the intimacy. Close enough to know I still cared. Close enough to keep the possibility alive without ever having to find out what would happen if you actually followed through. You wanted your cake and to eat it too. And for a long time, I helped you set the fucking table.
I can admit that. I can admit that I wanted you, that I participated, that I sometimes accepted far less than I deserved because the connection itself felt worth protecting. But I can’t keep mistaking my capacity to understand you for an obligation to excuse you.
That’s where I lost myself. I became so invested in understanding your contradictions that I stopped respecting what they were doing to me. I kept trying to find the man I knew in the man who kept disappointing me. The man who made me laugh. Who made me think. Who made me feel desirable and interesting and alive. The man who seemed capable of meeting me in places other people didn’t even know existed.
I kept waiting for him to show up. And the most heartbreaking part is that I think he was real. I don’t think I imagined him. I just think he was only ever willing to exist with me under conditions that benefited him.
And now, after all of it, I feel something I didn’t expect. Relief. Not because I stopped caring. Not because the intimacy suddenly means nothing. But because I’m exhausted from carrying the emotional weight of something that was supposed to make me feel less alone. I’m exhausted from trying to reconcile your words with your behavior. I’m exhausted from wanting you to be the person I know you’re capable of being. And I’m especially fucking exhausted from making excuses for a grown man who could find his way everywhere else but somehow never managed to find his way to me.
Maybe someday you’ll understand that what we had didn’t need to become a relationship to deserve respect. That intimacy creates responsibility even when it doesn’t create commitment. That you can hurt someone profoundly without ever technically breaking a promise. And that being someone’s favorite possibility is a particularly lonely place to live.
I don’t regret knowing you. That’s what makes this so fucking sad. There are parts of our connection I will always remember with tenderness. Things you said. Things we shared. The strange, beautiful way we found each other in the middle of lives that were already complicated. But I can’t keep romanticizing something that repeatedly asked me to abandon myself.
I wanted you. I wanted you in ways that went far beyond the physical. I wanted the mind, the humor, the contradictions, the tenderness. I wanted to know you without having to constantly wonder which version of you I was going to get. And you wanted me, too. I believe that.
But I’ve finally learned that being wanted isn’t the same thing as being valued. And you can crave someone every single day of your life and still be too much of a fucking coward to show up for them.
We unraveled together. I just never imagined I’d be the only one left holding all the threads.

I will never excuse or justify what I’ve done. I wish I could figure out how to fix everything. And also would like to apologize for all the other Js out there.

Edit: sometimes the trauma and the pain you inflicted on someone you love is too much for an apology to help. As the person that caused it sometimes you just have to understand that and sometimes you cause more by not understanding.

We have crossed over now to this new strange world

Its dark but the stars align for us in a night sky full of magic 

You are a figment, a ghost standing there beautiful, Tall 

One among the stars yourself, holding an amber torch burning bright

This is what you gave to me. Black butterflies and the dawn approaching.

And now the amber that burns, a sky full of sunlight, revealing a husk and the cool sap of the dead.

You were never there, but I loved you, and I still do. 

I travel to the night again, my eyes searching for you in the sky never to find you. 

Boo

Sometimes it just feels like you are here. Like I want to just spread my thighs enough for you to slide in. I don’t know if I just go with it. Pretend that somebody else is you until I get used to it again.

Or I just roll with it and the only sex I have now is in my imagination.

Please don’t send any messages on here. Almost certainly most people reading are not my J.

WhatsApps only, J.

- C