Dear NKRL,
(You know who you are—I won’t name drop.)
This is the last time you’ll see me, hear from me, or feel like you still have access to me. By the time you read this, I might already be married, settled, living a life that you had no part in shaping. And I hope that thought pierces through your ego, if only for a fleeting second. I hope it unsettles you in ways that your manipulations never could. I hope it reminds you that I am no longer yours to control, to tease, to toy with.
God knows how low I had fallen when you met me. I was raw, open, vulnerable—and somehow you knew exactly how to exploit that. You came into my life at the most unexpected time, with charm that masked your selfishness, your ability to wound without consequence. Your timing never matched mine, never considered mine. And I admit, at first, I was fooled. You were great… until you weren’t.
Back then, I didn’t know what “love bombing” or “guilt-tripping” even meant. All I knew was the swirling confusion inside me, the constant push and pull that left me doubting myself. All I knew was how small and manipulated I felt in moments when you smiled and said the right things. Turns out, I was already experiencing it, I just didn’t have the words yet, I didn’t have the armor yet. I was defenseless against your strategies.
I used to be thankful that you made time for me despite your “busy schedule.” I believed, foolishly, that the effort was genuine. But then I realized something painful: I was just an option, squeezed in between everything else that mattered to you. I became a convenience, never a priority. And suddenly, all the charm, all the attention, felt like a lie meticulously wrapped in sugar. You became forceful about things I wasn’t ready for, things I didn’t want, and yet I bent because I still hoped for connection, for recognition.
And we had no label. I asked for one. I pleaded, I questioned, I hoped. And you told me we had to keep things discreet, because we were neighbors. Discreet. Convenient. Nonexistent. It was a word that kept me tethered to uncertainty while you moved through life unscathed, unbothered.
When I became single, you turned me into your fling. And when you ghosted me, I spiraled. I questioned everything. I questioned myself. I questioned why I had let someone like you so close. I asked, “What are we?” and “Was I not enough?” I felt jealousy, anger, hurt—but I had no right to claim any of it, because there was nothing to hold on to. Nothing real. Nothing permanent.
Eventually, I got tired. Tired of waiting for a label that you never intended to give. Tired of reasoning, of searching for explanations, of piecing together fragments of a person who never gave me their whole self. You always accused me of impatience, of not knowing how to wait. But waiting endlessly for someone who doesn’t value your presence is not impatience—it’s self-deception.
So, anyways. I found someone else. And you… you backed off. Maybe out of respect, maybe because it wasn’t convenient anymore. The timing that was always wrong for us finally aligned with someone who deserved me fully, someone who understands boundaries and value. Our on-and-off, undefined something faded. I started unsending messages I had sent—the ones you never read, never cared to read. That’s how pitiful I felt, begging for crumbs from a table you weren’t interested in sharing.
Then came 2022. I found my soulmate. The person who saw me, truly saw me, and made me feel safe, valued, alive. And you—you ruined us. Not intentionally, perhaps, but through your recklessness, through your disregard, through your manipulations, you shook the foundation of something sacred. When my partner found out about our past, he was furious, and I don’t blame him. I let you in—not because I still had feelings for you, but because I thought we were still friends. I was wrong. You weren’t.
You used that closeness, that trust, to blur lines. You abused it to create your own narratives, to worm your way into my life when I had no need for it. I felt like a cup of hot coffee left unattended, cooling slowly while someone else finally arrived to drink what I had intended to share. And when he finally came back, I had already gone cold, hardened by your actions, by your disregard.
But the issue was never the coffee. It was always the one who was supposed to drink it. You were never that person. You were never meant to care, to respect, to love. You were just the storm I survived. And survive I did.
I waited for him, for someone who deserved me, for someone who could actually value the essence of who I am. And then one day, I stopped. Because time is not patient, and I cannot allow it to slip through my fingers while clinging to someone who never held on to me.
How can I say yes to someone who demands everything, yet gives nothing? How can I be with someone who is not the person I prayed for? How can I hold a hand that was never extended to me? How can I choose someone who only chooses me when convenient? How can I love someone who cannot even afford to love themselves first?
I am grateful for the memories, truly. But I learned that not all closed doors are from God. Some doors close because the person on the other side was never meant for you, no matter how charming, no matter how persuasive, no matter how convincing. Some doors close to protect you from the wrong person, from the wrong path. And that is exactly what happened.
One day, whenever I see you, I might never smile the same way again. Maybe the scars will linger, subtle but present, like reminders of what I endured. But I know this, deep in my bones: I will make it through. I am already stronger. Wiser. More guarded, but more alive.
And if you ever decide to wait for me—truly wait—then maybe, just maybe, you’ll find me not where you left me, but somewhere stronger. But do not hold your breath. I am not the same person you left behind.
By the way, thank you. Thank you for holding my hand when I needed it most—I thought you were pulling me out of the storm. Somehow, I was wrong. You were the reason I drowned. You were the anchor beneath the waves, the weight I mistook for rescue. You were not my light. You were my darkness.
So here I am now—stronger, wiser, finally done. No more waiting. No more unsent messages. No more trying to decode your silence, no more trying to find meaning in your absence.
This is goodbye. No closure needed. Because I’ve already closed that door myself. And it will stay closed.
—Me.