I was ghosted so much at one point, I started doing it to others. But not at first. No, at first, I was offended. Flabbergasted.
How can you not face me and tell me it’s over? Was the thought percolated in my head over and over months after it happened?
I can’t believe I gave these people so much energy. I even wrote poems about it. Gosh, I’m completely embarrassed.

Nevertheless, after the sting from the offense came the anger, the Alanis Morissette song. This phase went like a hurricane, destroying everything in sight until it ran out of air and energy.
I ran. The road and my Nikes were my therapists. If you watched me enough, you would know I was curvy when I was happy. Skinny when I was sad. But I smile, though. If you had pulled a camera, I would have pushed all the pain aside and shown my teeth.
It was a facade. Angry, strong on the outside. Broken on the inside. Gosh, I ran so fast.

But I could never outrun the pain. I wasn’t that fast.

And after the anger, sadness settled. It settled like the desert rain that turns water into mud that clings to cars. It’s stubborn mud that stays until one takes the time to wash it off. Without time or energy, the stubborn mud stays caked on. My sadness was like caked-on mud.

I trudged day after day with it weighing me down. Until I realized they were not coming back. This realization added a crack that molded itself into my being. Then when I found the time to wash the mud off, it was easier to walk.
But then it happened again and again and again. When I got to cleaning the mud, each time it got worst. I’d leave some of it on parts I couldn’t see. Behind my ears, under my boobs, behind my knee. It was such a little bit, it didn’t hinder me.

Muddy rain didn’t happen always. There wore bouts of temporary sunshine — temporary men, good enough to have but not good enough to keep. Yet, there was a small voice.

There was always a tiny voice that told the truth, as verified by the heart. But with so much scar tissue, it sounded muffled, incomprehensible. But I admit, sometimes I pretended it was muffled.

He’s not for you, it said.
No entiendo, I replied. English is my second language.

Then it yelled, shook my eardrums, harassed my brain, and took away my sleep until I ignored the calls like I ignored the voice.

Because why would I?

If I spoke the truth, it would hurt them, and I didn’t want to hurt them. Just because they were not for me doesn’t mean they were not kind, generous, or decent human beings. They were.

Yet, each ring brought two things: Their name highlighted on my screen and the sting of seeing it there unanswered.

Each time the tiny voice asked:
When are they going to realize we are done?
I replied with a quick prayer hoping they realize it sooner rather than later. They are good souls, after all.