I didn’t plan to text her.
That’s the lie I tell myself so I don’t have to admit the truth:
I’d been thinking about her for weeks.
Her name sat at the bottom of my chat list like a ghost I pretended not to see. I never deleted her number. I told myself it was accidental, but deep down I knew—I kept it because some part of me believed I’d need it one day.
That night, I was alone.
Not the dramatic kind.
The quiet kind.
The kind where your room feels too still and your thoughts get loud enough to hurt.
I opened her profile. Her display picture had changed. She looked different. Lighter. Like life had been kinder to her after me.
That stung.
I hovered over the keyboard for a long time. Wrote paragraphs in my head. Apologies. Explanations. Things I should’ve said years ago.
I sent none of them.
I typed:
“Hey.”
Because cowardice is easier when it’s short.
The moment it showed Delivered, regret hit me.
Not because I missed her.
But because I remembered her.
The way she used to wait for replies.
The way silence hurt her more than words.
The way she always gave more than she should’ve.
I knew she’d reply.
And that made me feel powerful.
I hate admitting that.
When she asked why I was texting, I didn’t answer right away.
I wanted her to feel the pause.
Wanted her to wonder.
Wanted to remind myself that I still mattered to her.
That’s the ugly truth no one likes to hear:
Sometimes people come back not out of love, but ego.
When I finally replied, I kept it casual. Safe. Neutral.
But the moment she said “You knew I would”, something twisted in my chest.
She was right.
And I hated that she still knew me so well.
We talked.
Too easily.
Like no time had passed. Like I hadn’t been the one who walked away when things got hard. Like I hadn’t chosen my pride over her pain.
Every message from her felt familiar. Dangerous. Comforting.
She didn’t flirt.
She didn’t beg.
She didn’t accuse.
That scared me more than anger ever did.
When I told her I’d seen her near the café, I didn’t mention that I’d stopped walking just to watch her laugh at something on her phone.
She looked… okay.
And that hurt in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
Because I had imagined her broken without me.
Seeing her standing, smiling, alive—it shattered the version of myself where I was still important.
I wanted to tell her I missed her.
But missing someone isn’t the same as deserving them.
So instead, I let the conversation drift. I tested boundaries the way I always used to. Slowly. Carefully.
When she reminded me of the damage I caused, I didn’t defend myself.
Not because I’d grown—
but because I finally had no excuse left.
I did hurt her.
I loved control more than I loved peace.
I loved being needed more than being kind.
And when she said I ruined her too, I felt something close to panic.
Because for the first time, I realized I wasn’t the hero of my own story.
The truth?
I tried to replace her.
Different faces. Same emptiness.
No one stayed the way she did. No one tolerated the silences, the mood swings, the way I disappeared when things felt real.
They left faster.
She didn’t.
And that’s why she stayed in my head.
Not because she was perfect—but because she stayed when I didn’t deserve it.
When she asked why now, I stared at my phone for a long time.
I could’ve lied.
I could’ve said I missed her.
I could’ve said I loved her.
I could’ve said I’d changed.
But something in me was tired of pretending.
So I told the truth.
“I’m lonely.”
Lonely doesn’t sound romantic.
It doesn’t sound heroic.
But it was honest.
I wasn’t reaching out to heal her.
I was reaching out to soothe myself.
And I knew—deep down—that was unfair.
When she said no to meeting, I felt exposed.
Not rejected—exposed.
Like she could finally see through me.
I didn’t argue.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t beg.
Because pushing would’ve proven she was right.
And for once, I didn’t want to be the villain in her story anymore.
The last message I sent her was the closest thing to an apology I could manage.
“I hope you find someone who loves you softly.”
Because softness was something I never learned to give.
I watched the message sit there. Unanswered.
Then suddenly—
I was blocked.
And I deserved it.
I wish I could say texting her helped.
It didn’t.
It only reminded me of what I lost—not because fate was cruel, but because I was.
Some people don’t leave your life quietly.
They leave echoes.
And sometimes, the person who texts first isn’t the one who still loves—
It’s the one who still hasn’t forgiven themselves.
THE END
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