Hello and welcome. I do not intend to speak for any particular person or particular region when I add this comment. I apologize for not specifying the origin, but you are free to imagine anything you like. Please don't take this as an insult; I'm just writing a novel about my life with a fictitious twist. Thank you. [Please be kind to one another].
In the aftermath of his departure, I'm left with haunting questions, the kind that keep me awake at night. What if he had stayed? It's a perverse thought, tinged with the forbidden allure of what might have been. Would his presence have shattered me, breaking every delicate piece of my being? Or could he have been the one to mend the fractures, breathe life back into my soul, and elevate me to a heavenly existence?
He, like any other man, followed a predictable script. He consumed me, savored the taste of my vulnerability, only to discard me as if I were an inconvenience. Love became a transient emotion, a fleeting illusion that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. It's been a year since that fateful chapter unfolded, yet the specter of his actions lingers. I find myself checking his online presence, a feeble attempt to ascertain if he's still alive. I question his motives, seeking validation from the same circle that egged him on.
Men.
I've never felt the warmth of genuine love. Always a runner-up, perpetually not enough— not pretty enough, not chosen, never the one. I existed in the shadows of someone else, a perpetual second choice, a mere afterthought. I poured my heart and soul into relationships, only to witness them callously tear it out, leaving me to pick up the shattered remnants.
I am human.
A pig with lipstick, the perennial fat friend, forever compared to others. My appearance was a source of perpetual dissatisfaction. Why did he choose her over me, my best friend? Why did he laugh at her jokes, a sound I'd never heard directed at me? Was it because she conformed to the conventional standards that I refused to bow to? Was it my refusal to fit into the mold of a woman who stays home, cooks, cleans, and works until her feet give way? Perhaps it was my lack of a headscarf, a symbol of rebellion against conformity.
All the love, the yearning, the need—all rendered meaningless. I was cast aside without a second thought. The life we built, the dreams we shared, all discarded as if they were inconsequential. Did the act of breaking me mend the fractures in him?
In the end, the question echoes—did destroying me fix him?
complicated.
