The weight of words left unsaid...

I'm feeling weird, like I'm floating between dimensions of my own emotions. In the last blog post I wrote, I did get my feelings out...right now I still think about "Y" from time to time but the emotion I feel alongside is a bit of anger braided with a persistent question: why?

Why does connection terrify people more than loneliness? Why do we sabotage connections in exchange for loneliness?

My appetite has always been affected by my mood—a barometer of my internal weather—and needless to say, it's nowhere to be found. Lost about 5 kilos since, like I'm losing the physical weight of all the repressed emotions I've been carrying. Usually I rely on my serious mass or Ensure, calorie-dense drinks that ensure health when food feels impossible. Can't even stomach them now...I'm mostly angry at myself.

Not at the person who said "I should've stopped sooner before things got too deep." Not at him for doing the most human thing of all—running away once a connection gets recognized, fleeing from the very intimacy he claimed to crave. That's just biology, really. Fight or flight when faced with something that could actually matter.

He said I can talk to him whenever I want, but what would I say? What words exist for the space between "we were" and "now we're nothing"? What language captures the whiplash of being seen and then immediately unseen?

Part of me wants to punch him—although my tiny fist won't cause a dent, at least it would be out. The rage would have somewhere to go instead of turning inward, eating me from the inside like acid.

What's crazy is that the same person who acknowledged we were soulmates or friends—who could see the invisible threads connecting us—is the same person who said "we are not even similar." Is it the ego talking or is it just dumb? The mental gymnastics required to hold both truths simultaneously, to say we're connected and disconnected in the same breath.

I think we are not even similar, because I don't run like that...I face situations. I lean into discomfort until it becomes familiar. Okay, maybe I ran—laid the foundations of a new life thousands of miles away, built an escape route in another time zone. But when I briefly returned home, I saw him. His car parked across from mine like a sign from the universe, and so I just fled before he could see me, like an outcast running away from any sign of civilization, because of how much I wanted to say.

Thank you for making me buy new clothes because none of mine fit—or maybe the old ones carried too many memories woven into their fabric.

The irony isn't lost on me: he gave me the gift of weight loss I never asked for, carved me down to my most essential self through the simple act of leaving. My body became a physical manifestation of absence, shrinking around the space where certainty used to live.

Maybe not absolute certainty, but the certainty of presence of knowing I could be my most authentic self in his presence—no judgement, no questions asked.

Maybe I'm a little mad that he still calls my ex-bestfriend his "friend." He thinks our relationship was only what he saw—just the middle and the wreck, the explosion and the aftermath. But not our high school days, not her hanging around my house while I cook dinner for my dad and her, turning ordinary meals into family dinners. Not me sitting on the kitchen counter while her mom makes me coffee, legs swinging like a child finally finding where she belongs.

Her mom was the closest I have felt to having motherly love, to having a mother...this he doesn't see. He doesn't see the sacred intimacy of being claimed by someone else's family, of being folded into their daily rituals like I had always belonged there.

He doesn't see the hurt that comes with knowing the person who still remained in my life—which was him—decided to leave also. The compounding grief of losing not just him, but losing him to the same person who already took so much from me. He doesn't see the particular ache of him still befriending the girl I once called a sister, as if my pain is invisible, as if loyalty is optional.

He once told me "she doesn't make herself available to everyone." No dummy, she doesn't make herself available to YOU. 

To me, we were family. We shared the kind of intimacy that doesn't need explanation...the freedom to exist in each other's spaces without permission, to be fed and cared for as if we shared the same blood.

I have moved on, I know. But knowing deep down they're still friends just breaks my heart in ways I can't fully articulate. It's not jealousy exactly—it's the betrayal of having your history dismissed, your version of it deemed less worthy of protection than casual friendship.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what growth looks like—not the expansion we expect, but the careful subtraction of everything that wasn't truly ours to begin with. The clothes that no longer fit. The appetite that no longer serves. The illusions that no longer hold.

 Maybe my tiny fists want to punch not him, but the unfairness of it all—how we can recognize someone as home and still choose homelessness. How we can call someone a soulmate and still decide our souls are better off apart. Even platonically, how would you call someone a soulmate then decide to guard your fragility by running back to being strangers, not even friends.

But here I am, writing about it. Here I am, still feeling. And perhaps that's the only victory available: that even in the aftermath of running—his and mine—something in me refuses to shut down completely.

The question "why" may never get answered. But maybe the question itself is enough. Maybe continuing to ask it means I'm still alive, still hoping, still believing that somewhere out there, someone won't run when the connection gets recognized.

For now, I'll keep buying Ensure. Keep buying clothes that fit this smaller version of myself. Keep writing until the anger transforms into something I can carry without it carrying me away.