So many unfinished shows, stories, tweets, texts, posts, thoughts. Thoughts that were original but felt unpopular so they just hide, in the drafts until they are forgotten. For fear of criticism, hate, lack of likes. This life, isn't the one I want to live in. This writing. Isn't for you. It's for me.
The feelings you had for him never left. Maybe you fooled everyone else, but I could tell by the way you looked at him. I didn’t call you out though, like you always did to me. I let you pretend. I let you pretend, that maybe he liked you back, or maybe you never liked him.
I wish I could write again.
Like I used to when I was sad.
I'd write and it was beautiful and creative
Because the most sad things are the also the most creative.
But things have changed.
And I can no longer write.
Because I no longer feel sad.
I just feel nothing.
— The End —