They were right aren't they?

They were right. Of course they were right.

Right from the very first whisper of doubt, those prophets of doom never missed a beat.

And here we are—standing at the carcass of what once dared to be called love, while they watch with smug satisfaction from the sidelines.

How poetic that the very war we waged to prove them wrong has become the epitaph of our story.

We screamed, we clawed, we begged the world to see us as more than the tragic cliché they predicted.

And yet, here we are—two strangers masquerading behind tattered masks of familiarity, like actors too exhausted to remember their lines, playing a script we no longer understand.

What happened to us?

Did love ever live here?

Or was it a fleeting ghost, a fragile delusion we chased to drown out the cold silence?

I clutch to the shards of our past, searching desperately for that flicker of warmth, but all I find is a void—blacker than the night and deeper than regret.

They say there’s always a silver lining.

That every storm births a dawn.

But in this labyrinth of broken promises and shattered dreams,the only thing shining is the cruel truth: there is no light here. 

Just endless darkness, thick and suffocating.

I want to believe—oh, how desperately I want to believe— that from this wreckage, we could build something beautiful again.

That the ashes might birth a phoenix of hope, rising triumphant from despair.

But the truth gnaws at me like a vulture’s beak— we are too far gone, too poisoned by bitterness and lies.

This is the end.

Funny how your absence now feels like peace.

Like the calm after a storm that nearly drowned me.

A relief so sharp it almost hurts less than your presence.

So tell me—who are we fooling?

Look at us, dissect the ruins of what we were.

Two ghosts haunting the same empty rooms, holding hands with nothing but memories that bleed.

How did this masterpiece of failure come to be?

Was it ever love, or just a clever disguise for two souls too stubborn to quit?

If there is no love left—if all that remains is the echo of what we once had—let’s be brutal enough to admit it.

Look each other in the eyes and say the words that will shatter the fragile illusion.

Yes, it will break us.

Yes, it will sting like poison on raw skin.

But it will be honest.

And maybe—just maybe—that honesty will be less cruel than this slow decay of pretense.

I’m begging you—just this once—wear the cloak of a gentleman.

Speak with the honesty you’ve buried under lies and silence.

Or at least fake it better than this grotesque pantomime we call a relationship.

Because I am done.

Done with the lies.

Done with the pain.

Done with pretending that we could ever outrun the truth.

And if this is goodbye, then let it be sharp.

Let it be final.

Let it burn so fiercely that no one will ever forget the wreckage left behind.

Because sometimes love isn’t enough.

Sometimes it’s just a beautiful lie before the darkness swallows you whole.

And maybe that’s exactly where we’ve landed.