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