For a decade, I played the role of the ‘unstable one’ in a narrative I didn’t write. I was the emotional janitor, the seeker, the one constantly trying to bridge the gap between two souls—only to realize the other side was a mirage.
After 677 pages of receipts, the gaslight has finally burned out. I’ve realized that my only ‘fault’ was a misplaced virtue: trying to rescue a soul that was busy plotting its next escape. This is what it looks like when you finally stop trying to fix the unfixable and start trusting your own eyes.
For years you had me believing I was the problem—
That I was somehow inconsistent from the get-go:
Broken. Damaged. Unstable.
Mentally ill.
Good thing I kept the receipts.
I always knew I’d need them one day,
if only to convince myself I wasn’t crazy or delusional after all.
Just tricked.
Just used.
Gaslit beyond belief.
Then the pattern popped up—
Unable to be unseen, or disregarded.
