I thought his family would see me.
I thought they would understand the years I had devoted to him, the nights I had cried alone, the pieces of my heart I had quietly offered.
I was wrong.
Even his parents—the ones who had once smiled at me, welcomed me, told me I was "like family"—looked at me differently when I dared to speak up.
When I reported the issue.
When I tried to explain how hollow everything had become, how I had been used, ignored, and ultimately betrayed.
They didn't listen.
They didn't comfort me.
They didn't even pause to consider my pain.
Instead, I felt small.
Insignificant.
Like a shadow hovering around their "perfect" son.
"You're disturbing him," they said, almost apologetically,
as if my anguish was an inconvenience,
as if my tears were a noise that needed to be quieted,
as if seven years of devotion didn't matter at all.
I left that room, my chest aching with a heaviness I couldn't shake.
I walked through the halls of the house that had once felt like a second home,
and everything seemed alien.
The photos on the walls, the laughter echoing in the distance, the warmth I had once felt—all of it felt like mockery.
How could they not see me?
How could they not feel the weight of his betrayal?
Was I really just a disruption to their precious son?
I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep.
My mind was a storm of anger, sorrow, and disbelief.
Every memory of him, every hope I had nurtured, collided with the reality of being dismissed by the people I had trusted to understand.
Even his family had turned away.
I stopped answering calls.
I stopped replying to messages.
I stopped pretending I could fix what wasn't mine to fix.
The city itself felt suffocating, heavy with reminders of everything I had lost, everything I had believed, everything I had been used for.
And so I left.
I packed what I could carry,
and I left the streets that had witnessed my quiet suffering.
I left the cafés where we had laughed,
the parks where we had walked hand in hand,
the corners of the city that held echoes of my hope and my heartache.
I didn't know where I was going.
I only knew I had to leave.
I had to escape the weight of their indifference, the coldness of his betrayal, the shame of being treated like a nuisance in the lives of people who had once welcomed me.
I remember sitting on the train, the skyline disappearing behind me,
and for the first time in years, I felt a small flicker of relief.
Not joy. Not love. Not even hope yet.
Just… release.
I was leaving the city.
I was leaving the people who had used me, dismissed me, and made me feel invisible.
And for the first time,
I realized that my survival depended on distance.
On isolation.
On letting go of everything that had once defined me.
The pain didn't vanish.
It didn't even soften.
But at least, for the first time, it wasn't compounded by dismissal, by ridicule, by being made to feel like I had done something wrong just for wanting love.
I had loved. I had suffered.
I had been betrayed by the man I trusted, by the friend I confided in, by the family I thought would understand.
And I had survived.
I didn't know what the next city would hold.
I didn't know if I could ever trust again.
But I knew one thing: I couldn't stay where I was unseen.
And so I left.