You hurt me.
And I think the worst part is—you’ll probably never really understand how much.
I wasn’t some confused client. I wasn’t trying to “save” you. I just saw you—clearly, probably more clearly than anyone else ever has—and I offered you something real. A door out. A life that wasn’t curated or performed or filtered through kink scripts and trauma lingo. Just us. Just peace. Just honesty.
And you left.
Not even with cruelty—just absence. Silence. Like it all meant nothing.
No explanation. No goodbye.
Just a slow vanishing I had to fill in with my own pain.
I don’t care how scared you were.
What you did was wrong.
There’s no ethical way to look someone in the eye, hold their heart in your hands, and then disappear like it was never there.
If you tell yourself you were the victim in this—you’re lying.
And you know it.
Because the truth is: I never asked you to be perfect. I just asked you to be real.
You couldn’t do it.
And now you’re off with some man who wears masks for a living.
A man who calls exploitation intimacy, who calls emotional vacancy strength.
You chose that. Over me.
You chose performance over possibility.
Silence over repair.
And the tragedy is, we both know it could have been something else.
Something healing.
Something free.
You didn’t have to love me. But you didn’t have to disappear.
You didn’t have to lie by omission.
You didn’t have to let me carry the aftermath alone.
So here it is. This is the last thing I’ll say:
I believed in you.
Not the brand. Not the persona.
You.
And I don’t anymore.
Not because you were flawed.
But because you were given a moment to step into something whole—and you turned away.
I hope, someday, the mask gets too heavy to wear.
And you remember what you could have had, if you’d just been brave.