The Logic of Loss

I can't sleep well lately; I've been thinking too much. I'm not satisfied with where I am in the moment, and it's really frustrating. I desire very much to be a household name soon, so that she will be forced to crawl back to me; to which I'll say no. I'll say no because I've already grown past her.

But if that's the case, why would her opinion still matter to me? It shouldn't, but it does. God, I'm so angry—either with her or with myself. I don't know which is worse. If I were a rational human being, I'd say neither is worse; nor is it fair of me to loathe her opinion of me.

I was with her for over a year; through rough times and good times. The videos I made talking about her—those were drenched in idealization. And I still do it, in a way. I'm just significantly more aware now of how much I idealized her specifically. She shits just like we all do; she's a fleshy computer, handling inputs to the best of her ability.

To speak of her as something divine and logical is not only unfair to her, but also to me. Unfair to her because the real her could never live up to the her in my mind. Unfair to me because, if what I believed about her were entirely true, then the breakup becomes a purely logical decision; and breakups are never that black and white.

Still, despite everything, I'm left alone; while she has friends, a new partner, a safety net to catch her. It's unfair, when you think about the fact that really bad people—rapists, sex offenders, abusers—somehow still manage to find community and connection. Meanwhile, I sit alone, writing essays into the void.

And I want to be clear—I'm not comparing her to those people. Yes, what she did was shitty; and maybe I deserved it. I blocked Vanessa for Nicole when I came back to Nicole. That wasn't fair to anyone. But even then, it's hardly enough to deserve being erased like this.

The worst part is that none of this feels real. It feels like a filler episode in a slice-of-life anime comedy—forgettable, directionless, irrelevant to the canon. A sequence of moments you sit through while waiting for the real story to return. But what if this is the story? What if the filler is all there is?

The worst kind of grief isn’t explosive; it’s silent and cumulative. It disguises itself as boredom, fatigue, scrolling. It wears you down in the small hours. And still, I write. Because there's nowhere else for these thoughts to go.