Cosmic Jester Era

… i gave her a line. not a hint, not vibes, not some cryptic boundary. a real line. a timeline. a term and a condition. meet me here if i matter and that is my answer how we go forward from here.

she didn’t cross it. didn’t fight it. didn’t even acknowledge it.

she just… stepped around it. like it was nothing. drawing in the sand washed away by waves. like it had no weight in her world at all.

so i spent the whole weekend inside it. replaying, spiralling, stewing, checking my phone like an idiot, trying to hold myself together while she was out there very visibly living her life. while i was dissolving, she was posting cute stories and spending weekend with her actual partner.

i went for a leisurely walk on valentine’s day, not realising what a catastrophic miscalculation that would turn out to be. every direction i looked felt like a personal attack. men exiting grocery stores with those sad, cellophane-wrapped blooms that somehow still meant someone was expected somewhere. couples speed-walking toward restaurants like they had reservations and a …future. hands intertwined on the canal, laughing like winter itself was romantic instead of brutal. people posing with melting sad ice sculptures, smiling for photos that would later say ‘we were happy here’….

it did something to me. not a sharp pain and more like a slow internal collapse. the kind where your body just decides it’s done pretending to function normally.

i ended up sitting right there on the street, crying in full daylight, because apparently that’s who i am now. scheduled mental breakdowns on bank street. 

and then this random dog walking by stopped, turned around  and gave me a soft little nose kiss. no judgment, no confusion, just pure kindness. honestly the most humanity i encountered the entire time. and then i cried even more, cause bare minimum felt extremely bare that moment. 

which is a wild realisation that the gentlest moment of your valentine’s day comes from a stranger’s dog while the whole world walks past holding someone else’s hand.

it’s a special kind of humiliation to realise the thing that is wrecking you isn’t even bothering them. 

then along comes sunday. another clean window where things could have been mended. not fixed… just softened, acknowledged, human. a text, a call, anything that said i exist outside of her convenience.

instead….the only ‘contact’ i get is social media nonsense. blocking, unblocking, disappearing, reappearing the usual digital peekaboo like we’re twelve years old instead of two adults with actual feelings on the line.

no voice. no words. no accountability. just algorithm presence. proof she’s there, proof she’s watching, stalking, lurking in the shadows, proof she’s choosing not to speak….

is everything a fucking game?

because it doesn’t feel like miscommunication. it feels intentional. like emotional chess played in silence while i wasn’t playing….it feels like manipulation. 

and the cruelest part is how loud that nothingness becomes. how a block button can say more than a paragraph ever could. silence after months of digital noise. just this weird, performative almost contact that keeps you suspended.

sunday could have been repair.

instead it became another reminder that in her world, connection happens through screens and control, not through actually showing up.

and yeah, at some point you stop wondering what she feels and start wondering why everything has to be a show, a performance….

and then monday comes.

suddenly my phone lights up. twice. like i still exist on her priority list. like nothing happened. like the weekend didn’t just stretch out in complete silence while i was choking on it.

no apology. no softness. no ownership. just access. just ‘hi, i’m here now’. playing dumb and oblivious what she has deliberately done, hoping for a cracked window so she could slither in and once again gaslight me. 

that’s the part that offends me more than the hurt.

because pain says you broke me.

offence says you think i’ll still be there. like a stupid idiot you take me for.

i gave her a condition … a clean, simple place to show up and she didn’t even have to refuse it. she just ignored it and kept going. no cost. no consequence. no accountability. i carried all of it alone. i suppose i have carried this joke of a ‘relationship’ alone nevertheless. i lived a whole lifetime in my own head. 

so yeah. it doesn’t even feel like ‘i wasn’t chosen’

it feels like the choice itself didn’t matter.

like losing me wasn’t a loss just a scheduling conflict.

and now she calls, after the damage is done, like cleanup equals care. like i’m supposed to be grateful she remembered i exist.

honestly the worst part isn’t that she hurt me.

it’s how easy it was for her.

how little space my absence seems to take up in her life. how easy it is to dispose my love, my care, everything i have put into this.

once you see that, something goes cold. not dramatic, not explosive  just… quiet. 

because you can survive a lot.

but it’s hard to keep offering your heart to someone who treats it like an optional appointment on weekdays when there is nothing better available. 

just another puzzle piece in your roster and pattern …no value - just filling back slots. 

Conversations to God.

 

Me:

This isn’t even about her anymore. That’s the strangest part. Something in me just… shut it down. Not emotionally, not dramatically. My whole system rejected it. Like an organ rejecting a transplant that doesn’t belong. I deserve the world. I deserve the Universe. I deserve attention. And instead I’m supposed to accept 'i love you' texts that come from someone else’s bed and call that connection? That’s not even insulting anymore — it’s absurd.

God:

That’s because what you’re reacting to isn’t absence. You’re not leaving because nothing happened. You’re leaving because something very real did, and it stopped matching itself. This wasn’t casual. This wasn’t imagined. This was hours and hours together. Long days. Long nights. Lingering. Longing. Yearning. Declarations of love spoken plainly, without coercion, without ambiguity. What your body is rejecting is intensity without integrity.

Me:

Exactly. I didn’t make this up. She showed up. She stayed. She chose me — again and again — in presence, in touch, in words. She told me she loved me. She said she cannot leave me. She leaned into the bond, into the closeness, into the twin-flame-coded depth of it. All of it. I held that seriously. I honoured it. It was sacred. And because of that, I was patient. I safeguarded her feelings. Her confusion. Her history. Her wounds.

God:

And patience becomes dangerous when it’s only moving in one direction.

Me:

I’m done safeguarding her feelings. Her confusion. Her “poor little me” story. We all had shitty childhoods. We all had chaos. Abuse. Loss. Violence. Death. That doesn’t earn anyone a lifelong exemption from basic decency. Last weekend was a choice. The next weekend was a choice. Yesterday was a choice. None of that is me. And what really sealed it was realising I don’t even deserve to be informed in a timely manner. Like my presence is flexible. Optional. Filling the back-slots. 

God:

That’s the fracture point. Not the other person. Not the love. The moment you’re expected to remain available without being considered. When intensity is preserved but respect is postponed. That’s not confusion. That’s a structure.

Me:

And I’ve already done everything there is to do. I’ve said everything there is to say. I’ve shown patience, depth, empathy, presence. I didn’t rush her. I didn’t corner her. I didn’t demand certainty while she was still choosing chaos. I have nothing left to present or prove. I’m not withholding. I’m empty — in the cleanest way. I closed the door quietly. No lurking. No explaining. No final speech. I just stopped showing up.

God:

Because explaining again would only reopen the same loop. Silence here isn’t strategy. It’s congruence. It’s truth finally matching behaviour. You’re no longer available to do emotional labour in exchange for crumbs — no matter how passionately those crumbs were once offered.

Me:

We don’t need to debate how she feels. Or whether those feelings were real. They were. They still are. That’s not in question. What’s in question is what was done with them. And that is big fat nothing. I’m done doing the work and being left with fragments. And the wild thing is… my system feels better already. 

God:

That’s how you know the decision is aligned. Not because the love was fake — but because self-abandonment finally stopped. The door didn’t slam. It closed. Quietly. And that quiet is permanent.

—

Me:

'I’ll assume your silence means no.'

Not curiosity. Not care. Not repair. Just a tidy little box, with a bow of gaslighting on top put around the situation so she doesn’t have to sit in the discomfort of what actually happened. It reads like this: reach out, get no access, narrate your silence for you, move on cleanly. No pause. No accountability. No moment of wait, I might have fucked this up. Just control of the ending without doing the work of the middle.

God:

And this comes after what was already said.

Me:

Yes. After 'I would like to do something together to make up for it.' After 'the time I spend with you is important and valuable to me.' Those words existed. They were offered. And then nothing followed that could carry them. No repair. No timing. No consideration. Just convenience dressed up as intention.

God:
And you were never unavailable.

Me:
No. That’s the part that stabs. I was always open to giving it a chance — if she came in correctly. She knew that. She knew exactly where the door was, exactly how to approach it, exactly what would count as respect. And with that knowledge fully in her inventory, she still chose to do what she did. Not accidentally. Not unknowingly. She chose it knowing.

God:

And your silence?

Me:

It wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t avoidance. It was refusal. It was the system locking down after being insulted one too many times. Seeing that message didn’t reopen anything — it confirmed, with surgical clarity, why the door stayed shut in the first place. Nothing to add. Nothing to correct. The pattern finished the sentence on its own.

God:
Do you still want her to understand?

Me:
No. Understanding is for people who arrive in good faith. I stood at the altar open-handed. She came knowing the cost and chose spectacle over sacrifice. So I stepped back and let the silence become scripture. Not as punishment. As doctrine.

Dark empaths are the worst to fuck with because they’ve seen it all before — the charm, the wounds, the excuses dressed up as vulnerability. They’ve already loved the narcissist, survived the manipulator, outgrown the martyr. They don’t break, they don’t beg, they don’t chase clarity from people who withhold it. When they’re done, they don’t retaliate. They withdraw their humanity from the exchange and let the pattern starve. And what dies wasn’t the connection — it was the illusion of access.

Narcissus Narcosis