Farewell

Damn it.

I’d already written almost everything I could think of—all the painful, awful, dreadful experiences since I first had the misfortune of knowing you.

But guess what? One misclick and poof, all my notes vanished.

Maybe it’s the universe’s way of saying, “You sure you wanna go there?”

Well… yes, I do.

So I’m writing it all over again. 

This time, no sugarcoating, no filter—just the brutal, unflattering truth.

But before I dive into this horror anthology of my life with you in it, let’s get one thing straight:

I did appreciate you.

I was grateful for your help when I was at my lowest—when you showed up and helped fix a few broken pieces of my life. 

I acknowledged that. 

I still do.

You were one of the very few people I considered my “right hand.”

You knew almost everything about my life.

So you can imagine how gut-wrenching, frustrating, disappointing, and betraying it feels now.

I tried. 

Really, I did.

I tried to believe there was a reason behind all this.

Tried to rationalize, to analyze—to give you the benefit of the doubt.

But the harder I looked for a good reason, the clearer it became: there wasn’t one.

This isn’t about exposing you to anyone else.

I didn’t write this to go public or make drama.

I wrote this to save my own sanity.

Because pretending everything’s fine while bleeding inside? 

That’s no longer on my to-do list.

I genuinely thought you were real. 

That you were sincere.

That I had a loyal companion beside me.

Turns out, I was just a conveniently placed pawn in your little game.

You knew exactly where my weaknesses were—and you weaponized them.

You manipulated me, convinced me to do things… all for your benefit.

I became your personal cash machine.

And the saddest part? 

I didn’t even realize it at first. 

I was too busy trying to be understanding.

Spending that week with you and your entourage? 

Eye-opening doesn’t even begin to cover it.

And me? 

Stupidly stubborn, still trying to justify your actions, still trying to be empathetic.

I kept telling myself: “You’re going through something. 

You’re not doing this on purpose.”

Boy, was I wrong.

Right now, you top my list of the most selfish, egotistical people I’ve ever encountered.

And that list includes people I wouldn’t trust to water my plants.

If I were to list all the sh*t you’ve pulled, it’d take more than just one post.

Let me tell you what I wouldn’t do as someone’s right hand:

I wouldn’t freeload during a sleepover.

I wouldn’t show up empty-handed and expect to be treated like royalty.

I wouldn’t embarrass my host in their own damn neighborhood.

I wouldn’t dump my expenses on them and act like I’m entitled to it.

When you said there was a “great opportunity” and wanted me in—
I assumed we were sharing the risks and the rewards.

Instead, I footed the entire bill while you just showed up to claim half the profit.

How generous of me, right?

I sold the first product and still offered to share the profits.

Then came the second product— Only this time, you didn’t even bother to try selling it.

Worse, you gave it away like it was yours to give.

No discussion. No permission. Just pure audacity.

Then came the lying.

Oh, you really tried it.

Staring me dead in the eye and denying everything when I asked about my missing product.

Only to find out later that night that you’d used it.

Not a trace of guilt. 

Just lies stacked on lies.

And let’s not forget the cherry on top:

You humiliated me in front of your own kids.

Kids who stayed at my place for a whole week without an ounce of respect.

One even had the nerve to say, “We’re guests, so we get the primary bed.”

Oh really? 

Where’s the camera? 

Am I on a hidden prank show?

Then you had the audacity to order me to give each of them an Eid envelope with the exact amount you dictated.

What do you think I am? 

A walking ATM?

Got a money tree in the backyard? 

Or a personal printing press?

Yes, you were there for me once—and I’ll never forget that.

But constantly weaponizing that moment just to guilt-trip me into doing your bidding?

That’s not kindness. That’s emotional blackmail.

Even with work, you crossed the line.

When you insisted on knowing my invoice numbers, my paycheck, down to the last decimal—

My gut said: There’s a motive.

And I was right.

You didn’t know I barely had enough cash to prepare for Eid.

I scraped together money to make the house feel festive—only to have your crew eat everything like it was a buffet at a five-star hotel.

And then you spent the rest of it like it was yours.

You forced me to go out during Eid, and when I said I couldn’t afford it, you got mad.

Apparently, being single means I have infinite funds and zero responsibilities, huh?

There was a time I didn’t mind going places with you.

That was when I only had to think about myself.

Now? Going anywhere with you means I’m financially responsible for the whole circus.

Ever since you tried to turn me into your wallet with legs, I’ve realized something:

You’re only friends with me because of money.

And when your special day rolls around?

You demand a gift. 

Not request. 

Demand.

Whether I can afford it or not? 

Doesn’t matter. 

Your entitlement always wins.

Let’s be clear:

You didn’t just take advantage of my kindness.

You strategically exploited it.

And one last thing before I forget— Yeah, I’ve known for a long time there’s something between you and you-know-who.

I just played dumb. 

You two really thought I was clueless? 

That’s adorable.

Don’t worry. 

Your little secret? 

Still safe with me.

If it ever leaks out, trust me—it wasn’t from me.

And if, by any chance, you’re reading this and thinking, “Wow… this sounds a lot like me…”

Congrats. You’re right. It’s 100% about you.

It’s not me.

It’s definitely all of you.

So kindly do me a favor:

Stay away from me.

Stay away from my family.

And stay far, far away from my life.

Goodbye.

And good riddance.