one month and 12 days
One month and 12 days.
It hurts knowing the day I cherish most — my anniversary with my boyfriend (who never even
liked her) — has also become the anniversary of you and I not speaking.
The irony feels cruel. Almost cinematic. Like the universe thought it would be funny.
I know… it’s ridiculous to be sitting in my bed, so sick I can’t breathe through my nose, and still
choose to open my laptop. To click play on my “don’t tell me” playlist —
“Sunset Tower” by
Conan — and start typing about the girl who unraveled me.
But here I am.
I’ve told my side to my friends. My family. I’ve said the rehearsed version.
But I haven’t let myself tell my side.
Not the ugly parts. Not the parts that still sting when I swallow.
It’s humiliating to feel like I need to explain what’s mine — my pain, my tears, my anger, my
heartache.
It doesn’t feel fair watching you so stable, so composed, able to write about me like I’m a
chapter you’ve already closed.
It may seem hypocritical, but even typing this makes me nauseous. The thought of anyone
reading it makes my stomach twist.
Maybe this is mine too.
Maybe this is my version of speaking.
Maybe it’s mine to let go of.
Or maybe I can’t accept that I never will.
Who decides that?
One month and 12 days of silence from my mouth and my fingers. Since yours have reached for
mine a couple times.
You never could grasp on.
Every time before, I folded. I broke no contact.
It’s hard watching someone you called your best friend beg you to care. Beg you to text back.
It’s harder knowing you do care — even when it looks like you don’t.
But this time is different.
I care. I care so deeply it aches.
But I choose self-respect over nostalgia. Over guilt. Over habit.
One month and 12 days.
I still open the calendar and check how long it’s been — the same calendar we once filled with
shared plans.
Why do I keep checking?
(Great.
“This Is Me Trying” just started playing.)If I’m honest — brutally honest — I think I’m addicted to the ache. I love The Sick.
Healing would mean walking away and never looking back.
And I don’t think I’m ready to accept that kind of final.
One month and 12 days.
I hate that you still live in my head.
I hate that my boyfriend knows to check my TikTok story to see if you’re on my mind again.
I hate that your shame for free — somehow still belongs to me to carry.
So I did it all — for what, Romeo.
One month and 12 days.
In such a short amount of time, I changed so much.
I think I need to change my favorite color again.
I rearranged my room.
I put up the pictures like I promised — but I broke the promise of you being in them.
I sleep on the other side of the bed now.
Even the air feels different.
I don’t feel the same.
One month and 12 days will never erase the years of being best friends.
You’re right — we welcomed you.
Reading your words made my hands shake and turn cold. It felt like reliving everything through
your eyes, your version.
For a moment, I convinced myself I was crazy.
I thought maybe it was me.
Maybe I should reach out. Maybe I owed you that. Even if there was no resolution — maybe I
owed you my voice.
But who am I kidding?
The words you spoke. The way you looked at me.
You deceived me.
You write like it’s a book.
But this isn’t a story to me.
My father’s health scare is not your narrative to polish.
He is mine.
You say he was the man who raised your best friend, so it scared you — but you weren’t there.
Not when I was growing up. Not in that hospital room comforting me. Not when I was breaking
with a smile on my face.
One month and 12 days.
And you still won’t take full accountability.
I sit here fighting the urge to forgive you for the half-hearted apology — not because it was
enough, but because I am lonely.Lonely has started to feel like my shadow.
Familiar.
Clingy.
Never welcome, but always present.
When I left our toxic cycle, I realized I lost everyone.
Not at that moment but definitely along the way.
I want to blame you — but I chose you.
You never told me to push them away, but you watched it happen.
I blamed them. I stopped trying.
Why would they plan anything with me when every date on my calendar had your name on it?
That was my choice.
And that realization burns.
One month and 12 days.
I could keep writing. I probably will.
How can I not when it is such a shame our friendship had to end.
But the irony doesn’t escape me —
my brain begs my heart to let you go,
but my heart is the editor.
And she keeps revising the ending.
One month and 12 days — and forever to go.
T