Dear Me, Please Stop Writing Fan Fiction

I have a headache.

Not the normal kind.

Not the I didn't drink enough water kind.

No.

This is the special kind of headache that comes from overthinking one date on the calendar.

September 18.

Really, Dika? Really?

At your big age? Haven't you learned anything?

Let's review the facts, shall we?

He isn't coming back because he wants to see you.

He isn't coming back to reminisce about the good old days.

He isn't coming back because he suddenly realized your absence has left a giant hole in his life.

He's coming because he needs a favor. That's it.

End of story. No hidden meaning. 

No secret message. No romantic subplot.

And yet somehow, my brain has been working overtime, trying to turn a practical matter into a second season of a drama that should have ended a long time ago.

Amazing. Netflix should hire me.

The facts are painfully simple.  For all these years, there was silence.

Long silence. Heavy silence. The kind of silence that slowly teaches you where you stand in someone's life.

And then suddenly there was a message.

Why? Because he needed something. That's the reason.

Not because he missed me.  

Not because he wanted to know how I was doing.  

Not because he was wondering whether I was okay.

Just… a favor.

And come on, Dika. Read the message again.

Was there:  "Hello?" No.

"How are you?"  No.

"How have you been?" No.

"I've been thinking about you." Definitely not.

"I miss you." Please.

Let's not become comedians. There was none of that.

Just straight to business. Efficient. Professional.

Like emailing customer service. 

Thank you for contacting us. We value your cooperation.

😂

And maybe that hurts a little. Not because he needed help.

But because after all this time, there wasn't even one small question about me.

Not one. Which tells a story all by itself. 

Maybe not the story I wanted. But a story nonetheless.

And then I have to remind myself of something uncomfortable.

Maybe, in his mind, I exist as a legal status.

A wife on paper.  A name.  A responsibility. A fact.

But not a partner. Not someone he shares his heart with.

Not someone he turns to because he misses her. That hurts to write.

But pain doesn't become less true just because I avoid saying it.

And maybe this is why September 18 gives me a headache.

Not because of him. Because of me.

Because some tiny, stubborn part of me is still asking: What if?

What if seeing each other changes something? 

What if he talks? What if he smiles differently?

What if there is still something there?

Meanwhile, reality is standing in the corner holding a giant sign that says: Dika. Please stop writing fan fiction.

Ouch.But fair.

Because the truth is, love cannot survive on imagination alone.

You cannot build a relationship out of memories.

You cannot create affection from silence.

And you certainly cannot love enough for two people.

I know that. I do. My brain knows it.

My heart, however, seems to be running an outdated software version.

Needs an update. Very buggy.

Sometimes I wonder why we do this to ourselves. 

Why we take crumbs and turn them into bread.

Why we take a message and turn it into possibilities.

Why we search for hidden meanings in people who have been perfectly clear.

Maybe because hope is stubborn. Maybe because grief is stubborn.

Maybe because the heart is a little foolish.

Or maybe because once upon a time, I loved him deeply, and some part of me hasn't completely figured out where to put all that love.

So here I am. With a headache.

Thinking about September.

Thinking about things I probably shouldn't think about.

And talking to myself like this: Dika. Listen carefully.

If someone wants to know how you are, they ask.

If someone misses you, they say it.

If someone wants to be in your life, they make space for you.

And if someone stays silent for years and only reaches out because they need something…

well. That tells you something too. Not everything. But enough.

So maybe September 18 isn't about whether he still has feelings.

Maybe it's about whether I finally stop searching for feelings that aren't being offered.

Maybe the question isn't: Does he still care?

Maybe the question is: When will I start caring about my own heart as much as I cared about his?

That one hurts.

But maybe that's where healing begins.

Anyway.I still have a headache.

And unfortunately, there is no medicine for overthinking.

Trust me.I've checked.