The messenger chime echoed, a digital death knell in the quiet of my room. Hours before, the air had thrummed with the phantom touch of his voice, promises whispered across the digital divide. Now the screen glowed with the cold, sterile pronouncement: “It’s not you, it’s me.” A phrase as worn as an old coin, yet it landed with the force of a freshly forged blade.
I was the cartographer of his heart, meticulously charting its contours, believing I had found a steady north star. I had built bridges of late-night calls and shared dreams, spanning the miles like delicate, spun-sugar threads. And then, he simply retracted them, leaving me stranded on an island of disbelief.
The “it’s not you” was a phantom echo, a hollow reassurance that did nothing to soothe the raw, exposed nerves of my soul. It was a magicians trick, a sleight of hand that vanished the man I knew, replacing him with a stranger whose words tasted of ash.
I was a garden, carefully tended, watered with loyalty and faith. And he, the gardener, decided to plant his seeds elsewhere, leaving my blooms to wither under the sudden, harsh glare of abandonment.
The digital screen, once a portal to connection, became a mirror reflecting my own stunned face, a portrait of betrayal painted in the cold light of a messenger notification. I was a character in a story abruptly rewritten, the plot twisted into a narrative I no longer recognized.
But even in the ruins of a shattered connection, there is a quiet strength. I am a phoenix, destined to rise from the ashes of this heartbreak. The tears I shed are not a sign of weakness, but a cleansing rain, washing away the remnants of his ghost.
I will learn to navigate this new landscape, to find my own north star, to cultivate a garden that blooms with self-love and resilience. The messenger chime may have signaled the end of one chapter, but it also marks the beginning of another, a story of my own making, written with the ink of my own strength and determination.
This one hurt…. By Elizabeth Proett
