#i know it's bitter and not good praxis of me but i hope when the revolution comes you are left behind.

[elytrafemme]

i know it's not good for me to think about this but sometimes i remember how i had very close mutuals borderline friends who ended up soft-blocking me and becoming hard core zionists and i feel like i should be allowed to claw off my wallpaper and scream

[starcunning]

Praxis inordinata

Happy Friday! Today I will be speedrunning the Eighth Umbral Calamity*. Stay tuned for part two.

*Eighth Umbral Calamity not guaranteed but strongly indicated.

[M/F] [WOL* (Kallisti)/Nabriales][The plot actually arrived? There’s no porn in this; there’s just plot.][Blood CW][Mild gore][Just a spectacularly bad idea all around][*technically Lensha Hathaar is the WOL; Kallie is one of her Echo-blessed companions][ARR 2.56][Erebidae][3.4k words]

Riol was a cheater. It had taken her some time to notice, but he won too often. The stakes were low enough that she had to assume it was merely ingrained habit—he had no obvious tells, which only cemented this perception. Kallisti resolved to mention it to Moenbryda only if it continued to agitate her—there was no sense in risking her tearing her stitches over what was meant to be a friendly game.

It had been a poor distraction up until that revelation; even afterward part of Kallisti seethed with resentment that her presence had not been requested at the Sultana’s banquet. Lensha Ravenfeller was a more palatable morsel, and had looked so in her gown of ivory when she had left with the others on wings of aether.

Kallisti thought of Ul’dah and she was there, in the Fragrant Chamber, though the scent of spice and the sound of gentle music she had anticipated were absent. The place was an abattoir, stinking of blood, and she heard steel strike steel and screams of fright. She felt the fear welling in her own throat, the terrible surety that the Sultana was dead and the Bull’s retribution was merciless—one of his fellow members of the Syndicate had paid a blood price for his grief already. Her gaze fixed at last upon the Highlander and she saw, impossibly, that his foe was Ilberd Feare.

The realization jerked Kallisti out of her Echo-blessed vision. She had fallen from her perch to land on the stone floor, and gazed up at Moenbryda’s ceiling. A figure loomed over her—Daye, she recalled after a moment—but rather than offer her a hand up, he pointed his spear at her throat.

Kallisti lifted her head to glance around the room. In the instant before the butt of his lance struck her forehead, knocking her skull against the stone, she noted the presence of two other Crystal Braves. One was doing his best to menace Moenbryda, though she had a yalm of height on him and a hellacious tongue undulled by her injuries. The other was patting Riol down for weapons; a half-dozen blades already dropped to the stones.

Kallisti closed her eyes, bitter annoyance prickling at the nape of her neck. Some help that vision was, to have left her in this position. “I know you’re awake,” said Laurentius Daye. She had seen the way Lensha’s eyelids twitched when she was in the throes of the Echo, and briefly tried to imitate it while also casting her aether back toward its anchor point, thereby to escape. Heat seared her shoulder, bright and blooming, and she smelled blood again, real this time; hers; his lance had pierced her shoulder, disrupting her focus on both tasks. She gasped. “Don’t try that again,” Laurentius cautioned.

She was going to die on the floor of Moenbryda’s bedroom, which was not at all what she had imagined for her ending. Oh, she’d imagined this locale once or twice, but the circumstances were vastly different. Kallisti tried not to panic. She had a great deal of practice wrangling her fear of death, but usually she at least had her staff. “Well?” said a voice. “Go and retrieve it, then.” “Nabriales,” she said, eyes snapping open. At the same time, Moenbryda said, “What is he doing here?”

Nabriales turned to face the scholar. Laurentius brought his spear up. Almost casually, Nabriales swiped his claws over the lancer’s throat. Crimson stained his blue uniform, beaded on the black leather of the Ascian’s robes, and spattered upon the stone floor. A moment later, Laurentius fell, too, dropping his weapon to clutch at his neck.

In the fracas, Riol had slipped a knife from his boot and pinned his Braves minder in the corner of the room. Nabriales pulled Kallisti to her feet and toward the door. She yelped at the tug on her injured shoulder, then planted her feet. “Them too,” she demanded. “Really?” the Ascian groused, and the shadows of the room seemed to coalesce into sprites of pitch, the umbral energy sparking from them quickly subduing the Crystal Braves. Moenbryda did not move from her perch. “I said, what is he doing here?” she repeated. “Saving your miserable lives,” he drawled. “Who are you talking to?” Riol asked. “Don’t worry about it,” Kallisti insisted. “An Ascian,” Moenbryda said anyway. “A what?” “Don’t worry about it!” Kallie said, still more forcefully. She clasped a hand to her shoulder, trying to staunch the bleeding.

Nabriales flicked a claw, and his shadow sprites darted out in front of the group, floating down the hall like ball lightning in negative. “I do hope you have a plan, Kallisti,” he muttered. “To the armory first,” she declared, “and we fight our way out.” “I will hold them here,” he said, and she could feel the aether gathering around him even as the Crystal Braves at the end of the hall turned to charge. Kallisti turned away, sprinting ahead, the other Scions running after. Riol hustled to the fore, ducking into the next stairway and clearing the first landings before waving Kallisti and Moenbryda after him.

“Do I want to know?” Moenbryda asked. “I don’t think I could explain it if you did,” Kallisti admitted. “Are you that intent on dissecting a gift?” “Yes. How did he know to come here?” “Put it down to opportunism if you like,” she hedged. “Something’s going on in Ul’dah,” Kallisti continued. “That’s what I saw.” “You think it’s related?” “Raubahn and Ilberd were swordfighting, so I have to assume—” Riol hushed them both, stepping out into the hall. Kallie heard the sounds of feet scuffling on the floor and peered out of the doorway to find the Hyur with his arm wrapped around the neck of another Crystal Brave. The other man made a series of choking, gurgling sounds that were only half-muffled by Riol’s fingers. He dragged the limp body into the stairwell and stripped the blue jacket from his compatriot, shrugging into it. “If the Braves are trying to hold the Rising Stones,” he said, “my best bet is to pass among them. I’m willing to bet this has to do with Wilred’s disappearance …” “What?” Riol looked at her, brow twisted in pained confusion. “Wilred,” he said. “One of ours. The best of us. You didn’t hear?” “I was off dealing with the Isle of Val,” Kallisti said. Riol shook his head, ushering the pair out into the hallway, pretending to hustle them before him. Kallisti didn’t bother to meet the gaze of any of the Braves they passed. She could feel the blood trickling down her arm, droplets falling from her fingertips, spattering on the stone. Her trail of crimson wound from the dormitories to the armory, and as they ducked inside, Kallisti took a deep breath. She repented of it as her shoulders rose, coughing it back out in a sigh a moment later.

She found her staff, and took it in her bloodied hands, feeling her aether flow into it, into once-living bone and wood as though it were her own body. It was a strange sensation—and a new one, having come to her only since Sharlayan, since she had slipped the moors of her mortal flesh for the briefest moment. Kallisti let out another breath, more measured, and turned back toward Riol and Moenbryda.

“Can you get out of here?” she said. “Even if you can only teleport outside, Slafborn should be able to help—” “It would send me back to Sharlayan!” “And I’d end up back in La Noscea.” Kallisti’s tail lashed behind her. She wanted to shrug, but her shoulder stung. “I’m not actually hearing a negative. If you stay here, you die.” “What makes you so sure?” Moenbryda pressed her. “The Sultana’s dead,” Kallisti said. “Gods, they’re trying to pin it on us,” Riol replied a moment later. “That’s the best I can figure,” she agreed. “So go back west or stay here and hang for a traitor.” “What about you?” Moenbryda asked. “What about the Ascian?” “I’ll deal with him,” Kallisti said. “Why did he save you?” “I don’t know,” she admitted. Oh, she had ideas—hopes, perhaps—but she had expected nothing to come of that little tug on the thread of aether that wound between them across whatever distance she could conceive of. “I’ll deal with him.” Moenbryda put the white auracite prism into her hands. “You’ll need this. And the staff.” “I have the staff,” she said, forcing the white stone into a pouch at her belt, marring it with blood. “Minfilia left it with me when she and Lensha went to Ul’dah.”

“Minfilia,” the Roegadyn woman repeated. “Is she alright?” “I didn’t see her,” Kallie said. “Almost everybody … almost everyone went.” “Urianger stayed behind,” Moenbryda supplied. “I have no idea what’s going on at the Waking Sands,” she said. “Is Arenvald with him?” “I think so,” said Riol. “Start with him,” Kallisti said. “Moenbryda, get out of here.” “But—” “You’re injured,” Riol reminded her. “Go.” “I’ll watch the door,” Kallisti said, adopting a ready stance. She clutched her staff with both hands, trying to ignore the pain radiating from her shoulder. The old wood had grown slick and swollen with her blood, drinking it in. “Riol, you go too.” “No,” he said, posting up beside her. “When she’s gone I’ll go find the others. They have no idea what’s happening here.” “Good luck,” said Moenbryda. Kallisti did not look back, but she felt the void in the aether, the rush of currents to fill the empty space, a moment later.

“Now you,” Kallie said, and Riol slipped back out into the hallway, striding stiffly onward, as though he was simply on patrol. She waited until he was out of sight, and thought of a crimson sigil—an insectoid pyramid. The aether around her rippled again, and she felt warmth and darkness at her shoulder. “Are you ready to go?” Nabriales asked. “Yes, but we’re going the long way,” she said. He scoffed. “Why ever so? I could take you to the Chrysalis now.” “Because Riol will need the distraction,” she said, “and I didn’t come for my weapon so that I could not fight.” “Meddlesome little fool,” he scolded her. “Then abandon me to my follies,” she said, already pushing open the door to the hall. “I will not,” said the Ascian, sounding genuinely affronted.

Kallie sprinted down the hall, rounding to find a party of Crystal Braves flanking the doorway. She laughed as she ran, and they hurried after her. So easy to lead them into a narrower passage, where she could round on them and gout them with flame. Nabriales caught them from behind, muttering in his dark tongue about the coming of the end, and crackling black energy speared down the hallway. They fell and he rose, an unhallowed being, his cloak rippling like dark wings, and then she was off again. Her shoulder ached. She let it drive her.

The pain seared still more brightly as she rounded a corner and was faced with a sword in her face. She brought her staff up to block, catching the weapon on the wootz plating. Steel rung against steel, and she shoved upward before the blade could slide far enough to catch her fingers. She could see stars on the edges of her vision, and channeled her pain into astral flame—not a hungry gout as she had done moments before, but an unassuming ember, notable only for where she called it.

She burned the air from the soldier’s lungs, and he died breathing ashes. Nabriales smiled, stepping over him, and led. To the right, the solar, and he turned that way before she shouted for him to follow, and went left, back toward the antechambers where her fellows often gathered.

She mounted the stairs and saw dozens of cobalt uniforms, turning to regard her sudden advance. She backpedaled, stumbling into Nabriales, who put her behind him. “Run,” she urged him, and dove back into the labyrinthine halls of the Rising Stones. She did not hear his footsteps behind her—but she heard the advance of booted feet a moment later, soldiers of the Crystal Braves in hot pursuit.

The earth trembled underfoot. She staggered, stumbled, went down hard—on her injured shoulder, barely keeping hold of her blood-slick staff. Kallisti scrabbled to her feet, passing her staff into her right hand, clutching it with numb fingers so that she could press her left palm to her oozing wound.

She never thought she could miss Lensha so much.

Kallisti looked back as she ran, and saw Nabriales moving through the rising crowd of soldiers, as unconcerned with them as they were with him. His face was masked in the crimson glow of his sigil, but for all the darkness that seethed from him they were still outnumbered. She ran, dimly aware of how difficult it was to climb stairs.

Her hands were cold, so it was ice next, freezing in place the soldiers in blue she saw awaiting her up ahead. The hall stretched onward, no other set of stairs that she could see, so she shouldered open the last door on the left, because she could lean on it with her good side.

It was a dormitory—disused and dusty. Its window overlooked Revenant’s Toll. She was several stories up. “Jump,” Nabriales said, his voice at her ear. She glanced back at him. He was bowed over her, a hand outstretched behind him, as though he could—without even looking—cover the doorway. He reached past her, throwing open the sash of the window. “What?” “Either you jump or we fight our way back out, the way we came, and there are still more of them on the way.” “I’ll die.” “Do you think I would allow that now?” he asked, sounding genuinely annoyed by the possibility. She could hear the approach of boots, the raised voices of the Crystal Braves as they cleared each of the rooms in turn.

Kallisti slung her staff over her back, pulled herself up onto the windowsill with a cry of pain, and tried not to look down. The heights were dizzying. Her fingers were blood-sticky against the leaded casings of the window, and a fierce wind moaned through the canyon. She closed her eyes, let go of her perch, and leapt, pushing off with her legs.

It was cold, a night wind rushing over her face, through her hair, tearing away her hat. Then it was warm, and she got the sense that even with her eyes open she could not see through the complete blackness that surrounded her. All sense of gravity failed her. She knew her head from her feet only by orienting herself around her pain—that must be her right shoulder, she told herself, which meant she must know which way her head was facing. She did not breathe, and she was sure she must be dying. She thought of an ocean she had never seen.

Then she thought of the salt marshes of her home, of the sea crashing over the breakwaters and flooding the estuaries. She could smell them, she thought—although perhaps the salt that filled her lungs was merely the scent of her own blood. Then she felt rain upon her cheeks.

Kallisti opened her eyes, and found herself in Nabriales’s arms, her legs dangling freely as he clutched her, chest to chest. “I told you I could float,” he reminded her, and set her down among the sedges. “I had other things on my mind,” she said. She leaned on him, no longer feeling strong enough to stand. “This is Yafaem,” she said after a moment. Even in the dim night, it seemed obvious to her. She knew these trees, the reeds and grasses that tickled at her calves, the scent of peat. “It seemed best to allow you to decide,” Nabriales said. “What is this place?” “It’s home,” she said, sagging with relief. He reached out to catch her by the shoulder, and she hissed in pain. “Careful,” she said. “That still troubles you?” “Of course it does,” she snapped. “It’s a wound.” “Hm,” he said, pulling her in, clamping his hand over her shoulder. She yelped in pain, looking up at his face in agony as though she might find there some reason for this torture.

He was not smiling sadistically, as she could not help but to have imagined. Instead, his mouth was set in a grim line of focus, and she imagined the frown that bent his brow behind the mask. The searing pain of contact ebbed after a moment, and she could feel the blood trickling from her wound reverse direction, flowing upward, back into her body. Her agonized flesh knitted, slowly, pulsing with pain for several minutes. She fought past it to watch as the damage she had done to herself in her desperate flight was mended, leaving no scar, even the skin around the wound free of blood—though it still clung to her fingers. When he lifted his hand, the cloth, too, was mended. It was like nothing had ever happened. “Oh,” she said. Her head swam. “There,” he said. “How fragile your mortal body.” “I still lost a lot of blood,” she said, lifting her hand to regard it. He curled his palm around her own, pressing her fingers to his lips. It stained them crimson, darker than his mask. “Little I can do for that now that we’ve left it in Mor Dhona,” he said, tone sardonic. “I need a place to rest. There’s … I think there’s a cave near here, we would use it when we were hunting in this area …”

She listened to the falling rain—pattering on leaves, splashing into the waters of the marsh. The wind blew through the grasses, and she could hear the call of frogs. “We’re safe,” she said. “No one … no one comes here but my clan, and … they’ll know me. If they find us.” Still it seemed an impossible task to reach the foothills, and she staggered through the mire until they found its mouth. It was cool and dry inside. She fell to her knees immediately, putting her back to the stone walls and sliding down. Nabriales crouched beside her. His hood had gone, sometime since their arrival here. His mask, too. He looked at her. “Are you staying? It isn’t much, but it should be safe. Or are you going … wherever Ascians go?” He shook his head. “There are things that require my attention, but these are eventualities. My window of opportunity has not yet closed.” She hummed out some acquiescence, letting her eyes close. The outer layers of her clothing were damp with rain, but the cloth against her skin was dry, and it seemed too much effort to undress now. It took most of her concentration to focus long enough to ask a single question.

“Why did you know to come for me?” “You asked,” he said. “Nnnn…no, I didn’t, I never said your name until you were already there.” He laughed, the bombastic sound of it filling the cave, redoubled and echoing around them. “Is that how you think this works, little fool?” he mused. “That you can speak my name and summon me, like a bound voidsent?” “When you think about it,” Kallisti said, “I am Mhachi.” “Even the ancient sorcerers of Mhach could not command our kind,” Nabriales said, bristling with pride. “No. You cannot compel me.” “Then why did you come?” “I felt your distress,” he said. She felt aether prickle along the nape of her neck—distantly, as though through a haze of black felt. Kallisti realized then how drawn she was. “I thought you understood this.” “I didn’t realize …” “I could be banished to the most distant star and I would still feel you,” he said. “It was not my intent when I branded you, but in what came afterward …” “In Sharlayan?” she supplied. “We are entangled now,” he said. “A change in your aether is a change in my aether,” he said. “I can sense your soul as though you had laid it bare before me.” “Spooky,” she said. Then, “Isn’t that a weakness?” “Perhaps,” he admitted. “So that’s how you knew,” she said, “but I couldn’t compel you to act. That means … it was your decision.” “Yes,” Nabriales said.

“Isn’t that unusual?” she asked. “Yes.” Then the rising darkness swarmed up around her, and she let it claim her. Her struggle had wearied her. It was so much easier simply to let go.

[thetasteoffire]

I think the hill I’m finally ready to die on is that the ‘woke’ brand of progressivism really contains the seeds of its own destruction in the unevenness of its rhetorical standards - that is, that the intellectual dishonesty of the kind of movement where the same person will tweet fervently about how disgusting it is that women are just regarded as sexual objects in a broader culture and then respond to all pictures of pretty/buff/both women with an allcaps “I’M SO GAY” is just...damning. Beyond off-putting; it’s self-destructive, in the sense that ‘an intellectual/cultural movement built on uncertain and inarticulable standards of conduct - any breach of which means a social media public stoning - is probably doomed’ seems self-evident to anyone willing to conceptualize it in those terms.

I read the new piece by the guy who was purported as wanting to hang women who’ve had abortions and while it’s obviously not exactly life-changing (crypieces by intellectuals who think they’re too smart to cry rarely are), there’s a few real out-of-body experiences: the “who gets sponsorships from Google and Pepsi” one is a solid soundbite, the overall breast-beating “I have been wronged” narrative is given new spin (if not new life), but the one that really hit me upside the head is that this very motherfucker had the Leftie Neighborhood Watch called to break down his door over the infamous quote which he insists was decontextualized - and then just paragraphs later pulled The Same Bullshit(TM), being sarcastic about something someone said that they claimed was taken out of context. The mob did it to him, and now he’s doing it to the mob.

Surely, the issue is becoming apparent, yes?

And I know, I know, half of the stuff that’s one here that rails against men/cis people/straight people/etc probably isn’t meant seriously or something and my point isn’t that those are the real oppressed people anyway, just that the praxis around being progressive in public and especially on social media fucking sucks. Why bother being a male ally when you see tungle.hell’s filthy internet hallways littered with posts captioned “men are weak af tbh.” Obviously with such cutting insights the patriarchy is only days from falling anyway! Sarcasm aside, the underlying question I always have when seeing that stuff is why? - since it really is a fairly intense deterrent, and the possibilities are...not inspiring: monastic-inspired denial of entry to ensure the willingness of the participant, complicated hazing ritual, earnest desire to actually not have male allies while claiming that you do to appear inclusive, earnest desire to not have male allies in your movement and continue feeling/appearing victimized because men refuse to help, just straight-up venting...probably all those and more have been the rationale since, despite the appearance of a hivemind, there really are individuals at work at the end of the day. But the key is: none of those reasons are good, none of them strengthen anything but esprit de corp for already enfranchised members, which, anyone can tell you, is really fucking bad for a movement interested in expanding its cultural cachet and really good for hardlining opposition. 

Straight women with mugs labelled “male tears” are just a symptom though. The real problem is still lurking in the second paragraph.

Which is, not to put too fine a point on it, sloppiness. The wave 2.9/Sex-in-the-City “feminism” that’s really just a cargo-cult style belief that emulating the worst elements of the patriarchy will give you the same freedom as the sexually caustic men who truly benefit from it is another good one. The conviction, true and to the bones, that when you tweeted “straight men are honestly garbage” that your ingroup, the straight men that you like and approve of (if any exist, who knows?), knew that you definitely didn’t mean them, that you were making a broader rhetorical point about those elements of straight masculinity that are often held up as the pinnacle of masculinity are so often self-destructive and harmful and can cause so much societal damage that men themselves, as a group, without reservations or exceptions because those are the confusing things needed denunciation (you were, of course, jut making that point - right? Right?) - but that some conservative motherfucker from Texas said that women who had had abortions needed to hang, and without reading the context first, you decided that he was full-bore 100% serious, and it was time to dogpile him - there’s another. 

I mean, he probably deserved it (?!). Even with context, it’s pretty spurious and a particularly bitter sort of sardonic that relies on reader knowledge of his position on capital punishment. Still...

I’m picking on ‘woke’ stuff mostly because there are enormous iniquities, and most of the problems that are talked about have a basis in reality that needs addressing, and progressive thought/politics are a good starting point. (Most. Not all problems.) It’s not really a surprise that irony has taken hold as the primary mode of ‘woke’  leftie discourse; when you mean only half of the shit you say literally anyway, irony is reflex. But again, you have to ask why it’s the continued mode when it has mostly ceased to serve; the field is choked with alarmist weeds, barrier-to-entry cowpies, and occasionally, the bodies of the ritually sacrificed dead lost in the tall grass when irony is abandoned, so poor is our grasp on earnestness. It could be what no one wants to acknowledge - that all of these methods, all these foibles, all these dope-as-hell roasts on twitter are just mimicking the suffering people endured at the hands of others, and gladly turn those tools on anyone “in power” at the first opportunity. Pause to meditate on the nearly Orwellian doublethink that is (rightly) wanting to change a society which degrades women whose appearance deviates from beauty norms, but having your opening mockery salvos toward shitty men be about how they’re balding, or unfavorable speculations on the size of their dick. Irony is virtually necessary as a paring mechanism; just hanging around some of these spaces is enough to see uncomfortable parallels of methodology between two ostensibly opposing sides - some sins are permitted by the ingroups, others are not, and the rules are arcane. 

It’s to the point that reading twitter can feel less like human interaction, and more like a visit to a faerie court. There’s no left and right in the politics of the internet mob - just Seelie and Unseelie. 

I mean, it’s no real skin off my back (until The Discourse comes for me, anyway). And even then, who knows? There’s dozens of posts/tweets/pieces of content/whatever written about how the left needs to unbunch its panties somewhat and let people grow - fine and good. I’m not necessarily hopeful that it’ll happen, since people love a show and a public execution tends to be a well-attended one, so far as shows go - doubly so when it’s just the death of public image (not coincidentally because you can kill those more than once and huzzah for that). But beyond its love for devouring its own young (and old), the conceptualization of progressivism as this delicate thing that will wilt at first touch of unworthy hand is nothing but pernicious. It’s already sold out, which is a good sign for a growing, healthy baby! Maybe, like, just maybe, if it were even a percentage as interested in recruiting as the DSA or say, the alt-right is, it could grow out of its tacit self-conceptualization as an institution which must be smol and pure, too good for this world. Or whatever it is that leads to the left getting so bored with itself it does stupid, navel-gazing shit in the face of literal fascism. 

[chatoyee]

“clean hearts are better beating this way.”

i listened to a lot of rosie carney, daughter, jay som, and tori kelly during our road trip down the east coast of vietnam. the first two during the nights, the second two during the days. we spent ten hours on the road the first night. i remember being the only one still awake, bar the driver, watching as the lights whizzed past us at ten pm. it was quiet, mellow.

i felt at such ease, sitting alone close to the back of our little coach that we hired.

i’m scared of the dark, but for a solid two hours, it was bliss. we drove for miles, through stretches of fields with no streetlights, nothing. just darkness. i saw the stars, and it was haunting. i remember promising you that i’d show you them and a lot of other things in that place my parents call “home.” i sat there, wishing for a lot of things. being pensive usually isn’t regarded as something negative; instead, it’s valued, yet the darkness of the night made things way more sombre.

my best friend told me her boyfriend got her flowers recently. my happiness for her is beyond words; no-one deserves happiness like she does. her message to me, telling me what happened, was full of excitement and emotion, and i couldn’t help but smile and return the fervour. it’s beautiful, knowing how much two people care about each other. the last time i received flowers was for valentines day last year.

i’m sorry. i fell out of love with you a long time before that, and i think you knew. you were just in denial, and so was i. my heart didn’t want to recognise this familiar feeling, but i knew it was happening. i could blame you for it all, but if it hadn’t been for my own strength and the guidance of others, i never would have broken out of that deep-set misery. but i should have been more forthcoming with you. i guess i was scared to admit it to myself, so how was i supposed to muster up any words or courage to even hint it at you earlier than what had been?

it was poorly-timed, i admit. you had so much going on, but so did i. day by day, i was mentally crumbling, crying until i ran dry, exams drawing ever closer. i thought i’d be unable to go through with the rest of the year, though the end of the term was getting nearer. you knew how much my academics mean to me. schooling is my pride and joy; i’m not effortlessly intelligent, no. meticulous, yes. which made it all the more important to me. but it had to be done.

i did love you. out of everything i can possibly say now, those words i did mean. the transformation of love is something that still leaves my mind reeling; i was falling out of love with you romantically, but i still cared, and i hope you recognise that. that’s why i wanted to stay friends, yet you made it impossible. and that was to be predicted. maybe i’ll never find someone who will love me the way you did, nor with the intensity of your passion, but for that, i can say i am quite relieved.

you loved me hard, but you loved me badly. it manifested in ways that crushed me slowly. i wanted only the best for you, for which i truly hope you understand. i didn’t know how to love, back then. i gave you everything, i showed you all the cards in my hand, because i trusted you with my heart and my life. i wanted to be yours, and so i offered to help shoulder your problems. i gave you what you wanted because you loved me so much, and i thought i’d never be able to find someone who loved me like you. your tender words when i was sick, your thoughtful gifts on our anniversaries, and the way you kissed me for the first time; they were all so incredibly sweet.

but you intensified your grip on me, unbeknownst to us both. or did you realise? did you consciously do this to subdue me? you’ve had many exes before — in your words, they were all terrible people. am i another one of those “horror stories” now? the isolation struck so much pain into me. i lost friends, my dear. friends i loved and told me to leave, but i refused and went back to you because i thought you knew me best. i thought you knew my character, my likes and dislikes, my dreams and future.

but you didn’t know me at all.

i sat in the darkness thinking about all the events that have unfolded since i left you. since the day i coldly walked away because you wouldn’t stop gaslighting me, even after our break up. i knew i couldn’t remain as friends with you when all that was in your line of sight was the aim to get me back. from insulting me and accusing me of things i’d never done, to begging me to come back and telling me how there is no one like me, and that i was your soulmate — that was the end.

self-restraint is something i’ve been trying to practise. as much as you may want something, things sometimes don’t pan out the way you want it to, and you cannot force it. i am coming to terms with many things. i have had a couple of failed romances since we last spoke; the circumstances just wouldn’t allow. long distance never works out so well; and wouldn’t we know that better than anyone else? sure, a handful actually last, but i’ve never any luck. i wish you would’ve had some self-restraint. i didn’t want to cut you off. you were one of my best friends.

i wished you well internally. you told me of the girl you were talking to, during one of our last conversations. was that out of spite? i told you not to hurt her; your intentions weren’t pure, and i felt a strange but compelling responsibility to not let you hurt any more girls. they deserve much better than to be your rebound.

it’s funny how things worked out. you said she was a nice girl. she contacted me a month or so later, thanking me for what i said to you. you told her about me, and showed her the text i sent you. thank god for that, because you hurt her. you hurt another woman you should have held close. she was an angel, and she was willing to be by your side — something i couldn’t do. i was honestly happy for you; i thought you’d changed. you hurt her, yet i felt betrayed.

i know nothing of what you’re up to these days, and i am glad. not because i would be filled with rage or spite, but because it means that i no longer have attachments to you. only a history that serves as a lesson. all i know is that you probably talked about me again, especially since you tried to log into my facebook account. please, just leave me be. if anything, just watch from afar. i’m so tired of having to battle you by changing all my passwords once again, even though i know this time you won’t have a clue what they are. just leave me alone.

i’m already have a hard enough time still dealing with the demons i conjured up while i was still with you. your anxiety and your depression — did they start to dissolve? i think you passed them onto me. you doubled-down on this hollow feeling inside my chest that comes with a strange aching; like you punched a hole straight through my middle, leaving it empty and unstitched. just open, bleeding, continuously. it hurts every now and again, since i try to distract myself from this gaping wound, but it’s always there. i still have to fidget. my anxiety gets the better of me a lot. it was much better while i was away, this past year. you would be proud with how outspoken i’ve become.

i bet you’re happy that things never worked out between g and i? you watched, bitter and jealous. retrospect is good and all, but only after the fact. he was never the one, yet i felt so lovesick. my heart hurt a lot. bet that felt so good to know for you. but he helped me with so many things that you wreaked havoc in me, even though he was never officially mine.

it was almost as if the kisses he gave me upon his front porch that one april afternoon remedied everything for a brief minute. and that’s amazing to me. we were friends. good friends. praxis talk, n all that shit. “homo economus” chats from our lectures spent sitting together, texting each other shit like “how are you going to be an effective revolutionary if you’re sleepy?” a hand reach over the table outside the pub to clasp my hands in his own, a couple of ciders down, and a “are you sure you’re okay? i really do care about you.” all of those are just memories now. a kiss on the cheek from last month from seeing him made me feel odd inside, but a few interactions later, and now i know. he’s a good friend. a cherished friend, with a little bit of history. and a little bit of that history may be a little awkward to discuss in public, but we’re friends. the mutual care is strong.

and of course, you know about him, i assume. is that why you tried to log into my account? please don’t try any more. i locked my instagram account for a reason. i tell you all you need to know on here. all my grievances, my successes, everything. maybe you got what you wanted — another one of my failures to grasp at a romance i ached for so badly. i’ve never felt so sincere a feeling since... well, you. are you happy that i ended up finding a man like that? or does that hurt you inside? a part of me wants to forgive; i don’t wish to make you hurt. but a part of me is unrelenting; you hurt me so bad that i want it to feel like a knife in your back. after all, that’s how i felt. you know what i’m talking about.

i don’t think this requires any more retelling. i’m sure you know of everything i experienced with him. it was a whirlwind, but i miss it. i wouldn’t change it for anything. i don’t regret anything. i was sexually liberated this year, something i know you hated the thought of after we broke up because it tore you apart. i understand why. but i am a free woman. and doing so led me to some of the most interesting experiences ever.

i’m a different woman now. this is who i am. not what you wanted to project onto me, to keep me docile and under your grip. no more. i hope you’re also no longer than man i once knew. that man was toxic. i wish you the best.