You ******* asked me if I was okay.

You.

Not me.

You started it.

You typed those words, “Pinky promise… seriously asking… no jokes.”

I should’ve lied.
I should’ve said “I’m fine” like everyone else.
But no.
I trusted you.

And when I finally opened the door,
you left.
Like everyone else.
But worse—
you asked.

So I replied.

I told you everything.
I said I was scared.
That I felt like a ghost still bleeding in a world that stopped noticing.
That I felt like I should’ve died a long time ago
and everything after has just been borrowed pain.

And what did you do?

You read it.
You ******* read it.
Every letter, you said.
And you did nothing.

Not a word.
Just silence—again.

You say you love me like a brother—
Then why does it feel like I’m begging for scraps of your time?
Why does your silence hit harder than death threats ever did?

You knew I was sick.
You knew I had cancer.
You knew this could be my last year on Earth.
And you still chose silence.

That’s not the sad part, not that you ignored me.
But that you did it knowing it might be the last time I ever opened up.

You want me to forgive?
Sure. I’ve done that my whole life.
I forgave strangers for stepping on me.
Forgave friends for forgetting me.
Forgave a god who never listened.

I guess the real question is-
Forgiveness for what?
You never even admitted what you did.
You didn’t forget to reply.
You made a decision.

I gave you everything.
And you gave me “idk.”

You left
a dying man
on read.

What the **** is wrong with you?

You don’t get to play the “I care” card
when your caring looks like vanishing.

You don’t get to call me your best friend
and then sleep through my breakdown.

You weren’t just unavailable.
You were cruel.
And that’s not the worst part…

It’s that You know me.
You know exactly how my brain works.
You know I spiral.
You know I overthink.
You know I read into every pause, every delay, every ******* reply—
and you still chose
to say nothing.

You let me talk to walls.
You let me beg the air for answers
while you sat there
knowing **** well
I was screaming inside.

You didn’t forget to reply.
You chose not to.

And then you said
“I’m sorry Charan”
like it was a favor.
Like I should bow
because the great Deekshitha
finally typed three words
after ignoring my pain
like it was spam.

And don’t tell me you’re “going through something.”
We’re all are going through something.
The difference is, I still ******* showed up for you.

Let me ask you this—

How many people in your life
have ever loved you the way I did?
Not romantically.
Not in some movie ****.

I noticed you.
When you were low and silent,
I wrote you things to lift you.
I gave you the words I never got.
I poured myself out

I saw through every mask you wore.
I knew when you were lying about being fine.
I read the tremble in your “okays”
and I replied.
Every. Single. Time.

I gave you validation when you didn’t even ask for it.
Wrote ******* essays just to remind you that you mattered.

And when it was my turn?
…….not even a ******* emoji.

This isn’t new.
I wrote you long-*** paragraphs before too—
not about me,
but about you.

I saw through your fake smiles.
So I sent oceans of validation,
words dipped in understanding,
proof that someone finally ******* saw you.
You read all of them too.
And again—no reply.

Just me and my thoughts echoing back in an empty thread,
me wondering what I did wrong,
me refreshing the chat like I wasn’t begging to matter.

Do you know what it does to a person
to give everything
and not even be worth a **** response?

Do you remember calling me your best-esttttttr friend?
Telling me I was irreplaceable?
Telling me I was the only one who understood you?

Then why was I the only one you chose not to answer?

You weaponized my empathy.
You knew I’d understand.
You knew I wouldn’t fight back.
You knew I’d say,
“It’s okay, I get it, she’s going through something.”

But you weren’t “going through something”
when you picked up that phone
to talk to your boyfriend
with me sitting right beside you
—waiting—
for the conversation you asked for.

You were fine enough to nap.
You were fine enough to smile.

But not fine enough
to give me ten ******* minutes
of dignity.

How dare you.

How dare you act confused about why I’m hurt.
How dare you act like everything is fine.
How dare you think “I’m sorry” is enough.

You think I care about apologies now?
You think I’m mad because of one reply?
No.

I’m wrecked
because this is a pattern.
A ******* cycle.

You ignored me two years ago.
Called me a “sidekick.”
Told your ex I was annoying af.
I still forgave you.

You ghosted me again.
I still stayed.
Still showed up.
Now I sit beside you every ******* day
like a dog waiting to be acknowledged.

And today, when you said “can we speak,”
and called your boyfriend instead.
And napped.
I felt humiliated.
Small.
Like a background character in your life
who somehow forgot his role
and started thinking he was important.

You know how that shattered what little belief I had
that I could ever matter to anyone?

I’m dying.
Literally.
And you still found a way to make me feel invisible.

….Not even a ******* thumbs up.
Not even a “hey, I read what you said and I don’t know what to say but I’m here.”
Nothing.

you didn’t just fail me as a friend.
You chose to.
you didn’t fail me.
You abandoned me.

And still, I’m the one who feels guilty.
Because I dared to hope
that the person I called my best friend
might give a single ****
about whether I lived
or died
inside.

But fine.
You don’t owe me your attention.
You don’t owe me your time.

But don’t lie to me with titles like “THE BEST-ESTTTTTTR FRND”
if you treat me like a bookmark you’ll never return to.

I loved you with the kind of honesty
most people will never understand.
And you loved me with the kind of silence
that should be illegal.

I gave you the kind of love
people write poems about.
You gave me
seen 5:43 PM.

And now I have to forgive you—again—
just to breathe.
Just to sleep.
Just to survive one more day without hating myself
for expecting something as simple as a reply.

I needed you.
More than anyone.
More than ever.

And you chose your ******* comfort over my collapse.

Tell your new boyfriend I’m annoying again.
Tell your friends I overthink everything.
Tell the world that I was just “too much.”

You said I made you uncomfortable.
And you know what?
You make me feel disposable.

You’ve made a pattern out of pretending to care.
And I made a habit of believing you.

But this time, I’m done.
Don’t apologize.
Explain.
Don’t call me your brother
and then ignore me.

If I meant anything
you would’ve replied
before it became convenient.

But I know now.
I finally know.

You were never going to fight for me.

…No more poems.
No more paragraphs.
No more hoping.

I finally heard you.
I heard your silence louder than I ever heard your voice.
And it screamed the truth:

You never really cared.
You just liked being cared for.