Got the message

Message received. Loud and painfully clear.

I guess it's on me— for letting hope crawl back into my chest like it belonged there.

For thinking maybe, just maybe, this time… it could be different.

I should’ve known better.

Six, seven months fresh out of a divorce— and I jumped headfirst like I’ve never been burned before. 

How bold of me, to think healing could come dressed as a new beginning.

Turns out, I was the only one gasping for something real.

The only one desperate to see if the fire I felt was mutual or just another illusion I romanticized in the dark.

The signs were neon.

Blinding.

But I— I squinted and called it hope.

I let myself believe that this so-called thing was real.

That he felt it too.

That his words meant something.

But his work?

His crown jewel.

His forever mistress.

His top damn priority.

He once said he’d visit.

Even asked me to move plans around like it was sacred.

Then? A “new project.”

Visit postponed—indefinitely.

The second time I asked?

Turnover. Staff issues.

"Can’t take a vacation until I find a new job," he said.

Translation?

You are not the emergency. You are not the priority.

And I’m the only one bothered by this cursed 6-hour time difference,
the only one aching to meet face-to-face.

To see if he really smiles the way he types.

To watch him laugh. To witness the cracks.

To know how he looks when he’s happy, sad, or God forbid—angry.

I wanted to exist in his real life, not just his screen.

I wanted to know if this spark I carry was ever more than static on my end.

But silence— that’s the message.

The last time he texted me was July 24, 2019.

And since then?

A digital graveyard.

Not a word.

Not a flicker.

So yes— I got the message.

LOUD. AND. CLEAR.

This chapter ends here.

Not with a bang. Not even a whisper.

Just a heavy, bitter period.

Goodbye.

And may you treat the next woman better— or at least text her back