Some nights don’t end when the clock hits morning. They stay alive inside you for weeks, months, maybe forever. That night was one of them.
Everything in my life already felt like it was collapsing at once. I had scored 10 out of 50 in maths. My monitor suddenly stopped working. I missed my dad so badly that even small things were making me emotional. And in the middle of all that heaviness, the only person I wanted to talk to was her.
I texted her. I called her. No response.
At first, I told myself she was probably busy. But slowly, my overthinking took over. Maybe she was ignoring me. Maybe she was tired of me. Maybe I was becoming annoying. Maybe she didn’t care anymore.
That’s the scary thing about overthinking. Silence starts sounding like rejection.
Now when I look back calmly, maybe she was just exhausted too. Maybe she was mentally drained. Maybe life was hurting her quietly while I was drowning inside my own emotions. But that night, I couldn’t think clearly. I felt abandoned, alone, overwhelmed, and instead of communicating like a mature person, I reacted emotionally.
I blocked her. The moment I did it, I expected relief. Instead, I felt emptier than before.
I kept staring at my phone afterward, hoping the pain inside me would calm down somehow, but it only got worse. I started crying badly, the kind of crying where your chest physically hurts and breathing feels heavy. And while crying, I called my mom and told her everything about her. Everything. How much I cared. How confused I was. How hurt I felt. How I blocked her.
My mom listened quietly and then said something simple that shattered me completely: “What you did was really wrong.” And deep down, I already knew. Because no matter how emotional I felt, someone who cared about me didn’t deserve silence and blocking as a goodbye.
Then around 2 AM, my phone lit up. It wasn’t her normal number. She texted me from another phone because I had blocked her everywhere. That realization alone broke me. Someone I hurt still found a way to reach me just so she could say goodbye properly.
Her first message said: “Thanks for blocking me.” I still remember staring at those words for minutes. Then she said, “You know I have anger issues, and I’ve been under a lot of pressure and mentally exhausted lately.” That line hurt because I realized something painful for the first time. I wasn’t the only one suffering that night. She was struggling too.
Then she said something small that somehow hurt the most: “You said you wanted to go on OmeTV because you were bored, but when I was there, why did you need to go?” That sentence destroyed me quietly, because behind those words was someone asking, “Wasn’t my presence enough for you?” And maybe for the first time, I truly understood how unwanted I must’ve made her feel.
Then she admitted softly, “Maybe I acted a bit possessive.” Even while hurting, she was trying to understand herself too. Then came the line that still echoes in my head: “Someone once said I would be the one to leave, but in the end, it was you who left.” And she was right. I left first, not because I stopped caring or because my feelings were fake, but because I didn’t know how to handle my emotions when they became too heavy.
Then came the sentence that truly broke me: “You could’ve done it without giving me this kind of trauma.” Trauma. I don’t think she knows how deeply that word affected me. Because suddenly I realized my actions weren’t just mistakes anymore. They became pain inside another person. A wound. A memory. A scar.
Still, even after all the hurt, she said, “Knowing you taught me a few things. I hope you stay well.” And then, “You blocked me without even giving me a chance to say goodbye, so here’s my proper goodbye.” That line shattered me completely, because everyone deserves a goodbye, and I took that away from her.
After reading her messages, guilt completely consumed me, so I started replying honestly, maybe for the first time in my life. I told her, “I got 10/50 in maths, my monitor stopped working, and I was really missing my dad. I really wanted to talk to you, but you didn’t respond, and I cried a lot.” I admitted that I called my mom while crying. I admitted she told me blocking her was wrong. I admitted I knew I hurt her deeply.
I told her, “I don’t know whether you can forgive me or not, but I’m here trying to explain what happened. I know I was wrong, and I’m sorry.” Then another message: “I don’t want to make your life harder or reopen this hurt. If you feel it’s better to block me, I’ll accept it.” Then another: “I hate that I might have given you more trauma when you didn’t deserve that at all.”
I kept texting because guilt wouldn’t let me stay silent. I told her, “I always used to say I’m there for you, and look at what I did. I acted like a coward and left.” And honestly, that was the sentence that hurt me the most, because I realized I became the exact kind of person I never wanted to become.
I even admitted something painful to myself: “Now I realize why I haven’t dated a single girl or been in a relationship. The fault lies in me.” Not because I’m unlovable, but because there are parts of me that still need healing.
The way I panic. The way I overthink silence. The way I react emotionally instead of communicating calmly. The way I run when emotions become too overwhelming.
I told her my feelings were real. Because they were. Even if I handled everything terribly, what I felt for her was genuine. I genuinely wanted to make her feel special. But intentions mean nothing when actions leave scars.
Then finally, she replied again.
“It’s okay.”
Just two simple words. But somehow those two words hurt even more, because she was comforting me after I hurt her.
Then she said, “Exams are just a part of life. If you never fail, you’ll never understand the taste of winning.” Imagine hurting someone deeply and still being comforted by them afterward. That guilt is unbearable.
Then she said something I’ll probably never forget: “I pray that you find someone truly good in life.” And then, “Whenever you feel emotional or low, just give yourself some time. Don’t make sudden decisions.” That sentence hit deeply because she understood my mistake better than I understood myself.
Then came the final words that stayed with me long after the conversation ended: “I don’t believe in love anymore. Maybe I’ve already become heartless.” Reading that felt like watching someone slowly close a door forever. And a part of me kept wondering: did I help close that door?
Still, even in goodbye, she wished something beautiful for my future. And then she ended everything with: “You’ll never receive any message or disturbance from me again. Goodbye.” Goodbye. Such a small word for something that leaves such a huge emptiness behind.
That night taught me something painful: love is not just feelings. Love is patience. Communication. Emotional control. Staying instead of disappearing. Understanding instead of assuming. Because sometimes people don’t lose each other because love disappeared. Sometimes they lose each other because emotions became louder than understanding. And maybe that’s what happened to us.
Goodbye, Sumo.
A part of me will always remember the girl who comforted me while saying goodbye to me forever. And after all of that, I noticed something that broke me all over again.
She had changed her profile picture from her beautiful eye to the sky. That small change made me feel how badly I hurt her.
And I have tears in my eyes while writing this.