No one tells you that betrayal doesn’t start with a knife, like it says in old books.
It starts with a vibration. With a missed message. With an unnatural pause. With a change in tone that only women with a writer’s brain can decipher.
And then comes insomnia.
Not the romantic one where you write poetry at 3 AM.
No.
The ugly insomnia where your body is sleeping, but your brain is performing open-heart surgery – without anesthesia.
It lasted more than a week.
My eyes closed. Heart wide open. Mind – at the level of “self-destruction with analysis”.
A cynical departure (he had eaten enough of me) and the hypocritical words: You hurt me! He didn’t need me anymore.
And I didn’t know what hurt more: that he betrayed me, or that I was no longer worth anything.
For a long time, I believed that he was the reason I wrote.
He turned out to be just a subtitle. A minor character in the novel of my delusion.
Insomnia is a bitch. But she’s frank.
At 3:33 in the morning, I realized something that changed everything:
The universe is a single mother.
When someone no longer serves your story, she removes them like a bad sentence.
Not because she’s mean, but because she’s editing with love.
People leave.
Some disappear quietly. You’re left alone on the toilet, cigarette in hand.
Then you drink wine. Until your alcohol-clouded brain slaps you with the truth:
You’re a writer. And no one has the right to take that away from you.
Here I am.
Writing again.
Awake for all the wrong reasons, and more accurate than ever.
The pain? Gone.
The people? As well.
The truth? Vibrating under the mattress like a vibrator on a forgotten frequency:
I’m not “too weird.” They were just too ordinary.
Welcome back, darling.
Grab your pen.
And let’s start destroying.