🎙️ The Darkness That Doesn’t Close

People think I’m overreacting.
They say “It’s been years.”
But they don’t understand the kind of pain that doesn’t expire with time—
The kind that doesn’t fade because it never closed.

M. wasn’t just a girlfriend.
She was my first anchor.
My first real “home” in a chaotic world.
She cried at my birthday, got me gifts, balloons, whispered “I love you” in the middle of the night,
sang with me, danced with me, loved me.
She came to my graduation.
Spent time with my nieces.
My whole family knew her name.

When I left for Brussels to build a better future, I was on my knees financially,
barely surviving as a PT in Eastbourne.
She cried. Said she couldn’t do long distance.
And in that moment, I thought: maybe she doesn’t love me as much as I thought.
But then, at the station—she changed her mind. Said she’d try.
And that one shift? It locked in my loyalty.
She leveled up in my heart. I believed in us.

I worked. She worked.
She got a recruiting job. I was knee-deep in a coding bootcamp.
We visited. I showed up at her work party. Her colleagues told me she couldn’t stop talking about me.
We were still something.

Then came Covid.

I stayed with her in London for months.
But something cracked.

She began to say strange things—offhand, detached:

“I don’t know if we should be together…”
“You don’t get my jokes…”
“I wouldn’t mind if you slept with someone… as long as I don’t know.”

I felt unsafe. Not physically. Emotionally.
The foundation was shaking and I couldn’t stop it.

I returned to Brussels to hold onto my sanity.
She stayed in London.
Started going out. Her friend A. moved in. The nights out started.
Paul—my late best friend—saw her at a bar he worked at.
She never mentioned it to me.

Then… silence.

Then… a weird message on my birthday:

“I’m so grateful to have met you in my life.”
I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was her quiet goodbye.

She stopped replying to my messages.
She asked for help with rent after refusing help with Universal Credit.
I paid anyway. Kindness on autopilot.

I complimented her. Silence.
I called her. Avoided.
I called again. She was at a BBQ.

Finally, I broke.
I called and asked directly:

“Do you still love me?”

She said:

“I see you as my best friend.”

I asked again.
She said:

“No.”

So I said: “Then that’s the end.”
And I hung up.

No resistance.
No “wait.”
No “I’m sorry.”
Just… silence.

That silence cracked me.
I panicked. I called everyone.
I told my sister.
She was horrified at how M. handled it.
Told me to get my money back.

So I texted M. :

“You led me on. You asked me for money knowing you were gone in your heart.”

She snapped.
Said:

“I can’t believe you think I’m a gold-digging whore. I’ll pay you back. You know my situation.”

A week later I’d lost 5 kilos.
Couldn’t sleep.
Couldn’t eat.
Nightmares every night.

I texted one last time:

“The distress you caused me…”

She replied:

“I’m sorry you’re feeling that way. But I need space.”

And that was the last time we spoke.

---

I don’t think people understand:
M. hurt me more than Paul’s death.

Paul died, yes. But the love remained sacred.
With M. ?
It died while I was still alive inside it.

She left me not with closure,
but with darkness—
the kind that leaves you feeling like you were never really seen,
like the four years you gave were recyclable.

I haven’t trusted women since.
Even when they try.
Even when they show up.
I keep them in the grey,
Because I never want to feel that helpless again.

That’s what betrayal does when it’s dressed in silence.
It doesn’t just end love.
It desecrates it.

---

Let this stand as a marker.
Of the kind of pain that has no ceremony.
No closure.
No justice.

Only truth.

And this—finally—is mine.