Next Time, Just Send a Fucking Meme

Spare me the emotional autopsy

Last night wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t even toxic in a way that would’ve looked good in poetry.

It was quiet. And controlled. Cold in that terrifying way people get when they mean what they say, even when they’re not saying much at all.

He talked. I listened. Not because I wanted to. But because I didn’t know how to interrupt a man who was peeling his ribs open in front of me like it wasn’t a big deal.

I wish it didn’t hit me.

But it did.

And now I’m sitting in the uncomfortable aftermath of something I don’t even have the language for. I got hit with something slow-moving and heavy, and now I’m trying to walk like my bones don’t groan with the weight of it.

Do you guys remember a few blog posts ago where I talked about that ache of wanting someone to stay, but pride gets in the way, and neither of you speaks up?

Spoiler alert, he broke first.

Last night wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

That’s how these things go with us. We fuck. He leaves. I exhale and pretend everything is fine. I don’t text, and neither does he. For days. For weeks. That’s just our pattern. Clean. Detached. Familiar. Safe, in a way that’s never actually safe.

But he broke the rules…

He stayed longer. He talked more. He showed me stupid videos on his phone like we were on the edge of something soft. We just laid there in each other’s arms while he narrated every car that popped up on his fyp.

And I didn’t realize that I was listening.

Until he turned on that stupid playlist.

Spanish heartbreak songs. His mom’s playlist, he said. Every track heavy with something I didn’t ask for. Something he refused to say out loud but somehow did.

And you want to know what we did? We danced in my living room while he translated all of the messy words. He looked me straight in my eyes while delivering every blow and twirling me around in my freakin underwear like we were just a couple of drunk teenagers.

He looked at me different. Something changed. And I know you’re all probably thinking I’m reading into this way too much, but that’s not all.

He left. And then texted when he got home. And then continued to text me into today.

That’s not the pattern we do. He’s breaking all of our perfectly crafted rules to make sure this doesn’t hurt more than what it needs to.

And I hate that I noticed. I hate that it matters. I hate the part of me that’s folding around the messages like they mean something.

I hate that he’s given me a part of his world—his mom’s music, his voice low and casual like he wasn’t delivering emotional warfare. And now I can’t stop thinking about everything. That feeling like I want to run for the hills and lick my wounds in peace.

I didn’t want his god damn vulnerability. It sticks to me like smoke. I don’t want these moments because we both know it has an expiration date. And I know some of you are thinking, “Wow, what an awful thing to say.” But we both went into this knowing what it was.

I want my numbness back.

At least that didn’t fuck with my head.