Just for Us

I meant to update this more, I swear. But nothing ever felt worthy enough to post. Everything felt too small, too dramatic, too much. This one probably is too, but whatever. It’s kind of a vent, fair warning.

You said it was just for us. So why did you go off and share it with everyone else? Especially them. Especially him. I’m not trying to be butthurt or selfish or impossible, but I hate it. I hate how easily you can say something is ours and then turn around and offer it to someone else like it never meant anything at all. Like I imagined the intimacy. Like it was never sacred.

I know it’s not a big deal. I know I’m sensitive. I know, I know, I know. I know everything you’re about to say before you say it, everything you’re thinking before it even reaches the surface. And that’s why this stings so much, because I know you like the back of my hand, and you still managed to pull the blanket over my eyes. Dramatic, yeah. But it’s how it feels.

I’m not saying I feel betrayed. It’s not betrayal. It’s not even anger. It’s just this deep, heavy ache, like I was never considered. Like I wasn’t a factor. Like I’m just this lingering thought, always a few steps behind in importance. And that feeling is worse than being hurt. It’s being forgotten in real time.

I know I don’t react like normal people do. I know I’m exhausting. I’ve always been too much, too emotional, too reactive. I try not to become a problem—but let’s be honest, I’ve always been one.

And sometimes, I want to give up trying not to be. I want to whine. I want to text you too much and guilt you for not understanding and expect you to soothe me with some apology and a kiss on the forehead like I’m fragile and precious. I want to be the first thing you think of, even when it’s something as stupid as this. That’s what I want. And that’s what I know.