Muir said,
Stop writing about me.
Just like that. No hello. No curiosity.
Just a demand, like I owed him silence.
I read the message twice.
Three times.
Because part of me couldn't believe he meant it.
Not I'm sorry.
Not How are you?
Just stop.
Like the story wasn't mine too.
Like the pain had a copyright that only belonged to him.
I didn't reply. Not right away.
I just held the phone in my hand,
heart suddenly pounding in that old, familiar rhythm,
the one that sounded like self-doubt.
It caught me off guard.
Not just what he said, but what it stirred.
The way his disapproval still had the power to make my spine curl inward.
The way I immediately questioned myself.
Was I being petty?
Was I making too much of it?
Was I telling too much truth?
For a moment, I hovered over the delete button.
For a moment, I wanted to erase the words before they made him uncomfortable.
But then I remembered something I'd written in a journal months ago,
back when I didn't even dare to say his name out loud.
One day, I will write it all down. Not because he'll read it. Not because anyone will. But because I need to see it. Need to name it. Need to make it real.
This wasn't about him.
It never really was.
This was about reclaiming the parts of myself I gave away without a receipt.
The girl who smiled too quickly.
Apologized too often.
The one who begged for crumbs and then called it a feast.
He never apologized for the way he faded.
The way he kept me in almost-love.
The way I left his place, carrying more ache than I came with.
But now, because I've turned it into a sentence, a page, a chapter,
he's the one who feels wronged?
That's what hurt the most.
Not that he messaged me.
But that, even now, he still couldn't see me as someone who bled.
He didn't ask what it cost me to write.
To relive it.
To carry it.
To put the memories on paper without making him a villain.
Because I didn't write him as a monster.
I wrote him as what he was:
a man who couldn't hold love with both hands.
And if that's uncomfortable, then maybe that's the story he needs to sit with.
Not the one I'm telling.
The one he lived.
So I didn't delete the chapter.
I didn't archive the book.
I didn't stop.
Instead, I opened my laptop and wrote more.
Fingers trembling, but not hesitating.
This is my story.
I get to write the heartbreak.
I get to write the quiet ache of being almost-loved.
I get to write the becoming.
He didn't want to be written.
He wanted to be forgotten.
But the moment he made me feel invisible,
he gave me a voice I could never unhear again.
So no.
I won't stop.
If he wanted to be remembered differently,
He should've shown up differently.
This is not revenge.
This is a release.
This is not bitterness.
This is breath.
This is not his story.
It's mine.
It's about the girl who kept shrinking.
The girl who almost forgot how to speak.
The girl who found her voice and wrote her way back.
And I'm not done writing.