Not Again

It's a cruel encore, this recurring heartbreak.

Each time, the fragile hope blossoms. 

A connection so deep, a comfort that settles like a long-lost home. 

You laid your foundations, brick by vulnerable brick, convinced this was the haven, the soul to navigate life's storms. 

You offered compromise, a willing hand in building something real.

For the first time since the wreckage of your marriage five years past, a genuine smile touched your lips, a lightness danced in your steps. 

You craved his world, eagerly anticipating the tangible reality of his presence, the unfolding of a shared future.

But the universe, it seems, delights in its twisted punchlines. 

Once again, the rug is yanked.

The promised world, the whispered "us," dissolves into the bitter taste of "not the one." 

A single divergence of view, and the warmth you knew turns glacial. 

"I wish you the very best and good luck" – a curt dismissal that shatters the carefully constructed illusion.

Life's humor is indeed dark, a cruel jest played when happiness dares to peek through the clouds. 

That familiar unease, the premonition of impending shadow, solidifies into a stark reality. 

Why paint such vibrant futures only to reveal a canvas blank of intention? 

Why the grand pronouncements if honesty was a stranger to his tongue?

He demanded frankness, yet offered a façade. 

You, with your open hand and truthful heart, laid bare your desires from the start, refusing the games of veiled intentions.

Now, a torrent of "why"s crashes through your mind. 

The familiar sting of being unwanted, the gnawing question of your own worthiness. 

How could those fervent affections evaporate at the first sign of friction? 

Were they ever real, or simply masterful performance?

He offered galaxies, yet retreated at the slightest earthly disagreement. 

Where did the warmth vanish? 

How does genuine feeling curdle so quickly into indifference?

No call to understand your perspective. 

No attempt to soothe your fears. 

No desperate search during your silence. 

No plea to reconsider the bond you thought you shared.

Five months, a virtual intimacy – perhaps a fragile foundation. 

Yet your emotions were real, your sincerity unwavering. 

But in the end, his swift departure speaks volumes, a chilling testament to his true measure.

You have weathered storms before, navigated your own personal hell.

This too, will pass. 

But the lesson echoes: tread softly where dreams take root.

Bismillah. You will rise again.

It's OVER

IT’S OVER.

(What a plot twist, huh?)

I didn’t see it ending like this— but maybe that’s the joke.

Maybe we were just two extras trying to play the lead in each other’s stories.

I bent. I twisted. I folded myself in half — (not for everything, sure, but enough to matter).

But one delicate little topic, one untouchable thing— and suddenly, we’re on different planets with no rocket fuel left.

You said, “Let’s find a solution.” How sweet.

But when I gave you mine,

all I got was a corporate-style breakup text:

“I wish you the very best and good luck.”

Oh. Okay.

Was that line from your template, or did you come up with it yourself?

Not even a pause.

Not even a flicker of “Damn, this hurts.”

Just—poof.

Like the last five months were a coffee run you forgot even happened.

Guess it never meant that much to you. 

And silly me, thinking it did.

Thinking we were building something instead of playing house
on quicksand.

Maybe your feelings were never real.

Maybe you faked the whole thing.

(Maybe I just wanted it too badly to notice.)

But you know what?

I’m done dissecting dead things.

Let the autopsy rest.

It’s over.

And maybe that’s the best line in the whole damn story.

Goodbye, love.

You were a beautiful waste of time.

Mr Traveller

I met him on Tagged.

A swipe in the dark, a stranger in the sea of the usual.

July 26, 2020 — his first message landed like a whisper I wasn’t expecting.

A Saudi man. Muslim. Divorced. No kids. Three years my senior.

Carrying his own ghosts, just like me.

Maybe that’s why it felt like we spoke the same language even in silence.

I didn’t plan on anything.

Didn’t let my heart wear its hope on its sleeve.

But he spoke of intentions—of wanting to know me, not just the curated pieces.

We spent two months hiding behind chat bubbles, then he asked to hear my voice.

September 3.

We exchanged numbers. He called right away.

And suddenly, it felt like I’d known him in another life, in another heartbreak.

We talked for hours.

Too many hours.

Too soon, maybe— but something about the way he spoke felt dangerously real.

By day six,

he was talking about marriage.

I should’ve been scared.

But instead, I was quiet…

curious…

unfolding.

September 10.

He sent me his passport. 

I sent mine back— A transaction of trust in .jpg form.

He asked about dowry. 

About visas.

About the cost of promises and the weight of intentions.

And then he said he wanted my father

to be my Wali Nikah.

Not out of duty— but respect.

December 10.

I gave him Dad’s number. He called.

They spoke for twelve minutes.

Words I didn’t hear— but I felt them in the way Dad smiled afterward.

In the way he said, “He’s a good man.”

Alhamdulillah.

Mom?

She’s a storm in a teacup.

One minute, planning centerpieces.

The next, casting doubt like confetti.

But that’s just her— her love is sharp, and sometimes it cuts before it heals.

I’m divorced.

I don’t need permission.

But I wanted Dad’s blessing— and I got it.

That means something.

So here I am, not naïve, not dreaming in pastels.

Just a woman who’s seen enough endings to recognize when a beginning feels sacred.

Bismillah.

Let the story write itself.

Let the ink bleed real.

Let love show up raw, or not at all.

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

Here We Go

Here we go again…

Another predictable move from her— bold, if I’m being generous.

Honestly, I knew it was just a matter of time before she spun her tale to anyone with ears and a soft spot for drama.

I’m sure she conveniently skipped the part where she and her little sidekick went out of their way to make me look like a fool.

I bet she left out the juicy details—  the ones where they both tried to rip me off,smiles on their faces, knives behind their backs.

And me?

I was naive enough to believe they were sincere.

That they actually wanted to be my friend.

No games. 

No schemes. 

Just real connection.

Cute, right?

And now she’s back at that old office, weaving her narrative like a well-rehearsed monologue to anyone willing to nod along.

That’s fine.

Let her talk.

I don’t need to defend myself.

I don’t need to explain a damn thing.

Because the truth is simple— If they knew me, really knew me,
they’d know there’s always more to the story.

But if they’re that easy to sway, then maybe they were never really in my corner to begin with.

Let her play her game.

Let them clap for her performance.

She probably thinks that once people start whispering, I’ll get desperate, I’ll break, I’ll pick up the phone and call her.

Joke’s on her.

I wouldn’t call either of them— not in this lifetime, not in a million years.

BYE.

And may the drama keep you warm at night.

Back Off Please

So guess what?

After more than a blissfully quiet month of no contact, today, one of them suddenly remembers I exist.

“Hey… just wondering if you’re okay? Did we do something wrong?”

Oh wow. The audacity.

Cute how it took 40+ days of silence for them to start guessing something might be off.

Love that delayed reaction—so on brand.

Let me make it super clear:

Yes, we have a problem.

But no, I will not be discussing it.

Why?

Because the only “solution” that actually works for me is you both not existing in my inbox.

And surprise: I’m thriving.

See, I know exactly how this would go if I replied.

I start explaining.

They start analyzing, dissecting, poking, gaslighting—

“Oh you’re too sensitive.”

“That’s not what we meant.”

“You’re overreacting.”

Yeah, no thanks.

Once upon a time, I was that naive little idiot who believed they actually cared.

Believed their smiles weren’t sharpened knives.

But that fairy tale expired—and I’m no longer available for the sequel.

This past month and a half?

Quiet.

Uncluttered.

Deliciously drama-free.

Turns out, peace isn’t overrated.

No fake laughter.

No emotional hangovers after forced hangouts.

No “oh wow, that was exhausting” moments after spending time with them.

Just… me. Breathing. Living. Recovering.

And honestly, if I want to see a movie, try a new café, hop on a train solo— I’d rather do it alone than drag around deadweight energy.

So, let's simplify:

Only two options here.

1. They vanish from my life forever.

2. I vanish from theirs.

And since the first one seems like too much work for their attention-starved egos,

I’ll do the honors.

I’m out.

Completely.

Permanently.

Do not text.

Do not call.

Do not “check in.”

Pretend I never existed.

I’m doing the same for you—gladly.

BYE.

May your next manipulation be more subtle.

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.