The train station was bustling with people—rushing to work, to campus, to anywhere but
where they were. It was one of those mornings when everything felt like background noise: clattering footsteps, distant announcements, the occasional screech of brakes, and the ever-familiar scent of overpriced coffee and exhaustion.
That's when I saw that person walking toward me.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. You know how the brain sometimes plays cruel tricks
when you're half-awake and emotionally constipated? But no. It was really them.
The one person I had successfully erased from my daily routine, blocked from my apps, and buried somewhere between Spotify playlists and aggressive denial.
It wasn't a pleasant meeting—because, really, who wants to see their ex again? Unless you're a masochist. Or a screenwriter desperate for plot.
Worse still, it wasn't even a spontaneous tragedy. It had been arranged. A setup, courtesy of a mutual friend who believed in closure, healing, and other forms of emotional torture.
As expected, it didn't go well.
I wasn't in the mood to show mercy, and that person wasn't ready for honesty. They came
with old emotions repackaged in slightly newer clothes. I came with zero patience and a heart that had already moved to another timezone.
We talked.
They cried.
I left.
Don't ask me what was said. You've heard it before—the same old breakup script:
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
"It hurts when you leave."
"I've changed."
Insert dramatic sniffle. Maybe a poetic line about the moon. Maybe not.
Thankfully, there wasn't a "Can we start over?" But the performance was bad enough.
The worst part wasn't the public meltdown. Not even the awkward silence that followed.
It was the look my friend gave me — like I had just kicked a puppy into traffic. She asked why I left them there, crying alone.
Honestly? I didn't owe anyone an answer.
But I gave her the standard reply: "Just let it go."
She didn't mean any harm. She just didn't get it. Most people don't.
Everyone loves a good redemption arc. Everyone wants the breakup to be mutual, dignified, Instagrammable. But real life? It's messy. One-sided. Ugly in ways polite society doesn't post about.
As for why we broke up — well, that's a long story.
And if you want to hear it, you'll have to hear the rest too.
But before we get into all that—before the heartbreaks, the expectations, the suffocating silence and the brief flashes of hope — you need to know me.
Don't worry, this isn't a sob story.
It's not some over dramatic romance novel either.
This is my story.
The parts people gloss over. The chapters no one wants to admit they lived through.
It's about trying to survive when you're not even sure you're really living.
It's about figuring out who you are after you've spent years being everything everyone else needed you to be.
This is the in-between. The messy middle.
This is the journey to live a life.
My life.