I have two wishes.

One: to have a voice where I have been silenced.

Since you left, I wonder. I hold in my mind these two possibilities, one world where you never ghosted me. Where we had a chance to see what happened, to talk, to know each other, to see where the intense passion would lead to. I mourn the loss of that world. My desire for that lost possibility is mingled with my unmitigated rage at your actual actions, your emotional violence towards me. I live with the reality, that you created this fire, then you left with no reason why. Do you still think of me?

I hold past trauma in my mind, my body. I shared this with you. Then, immediately, you did the worst thing you possibly could. You silenced me, you hurt me, you left me the same way I told you everyone else has done. Did you do this on purpose? Are you a narcissist? Are you selfish, immature, blind to others hurt? Do you even know what you did?

Two: to be acknowledged.

To silence me is to deny my basic humanity. To treat me like I am invisible is to negate my feelings as a person, to not even give me a chance to speak, to listen, to communicate. I am a person. I didn’t become a nonperson when you ghosted me. My feelings are real, they are valid. Whatever self-justification you have, I don’t fucking care, it doesn’t change the result of what you did and how that made me feel. And there is no excuse – none – that can explain how what you did is ok. I did not deserve this.

How fucking dare you. I thought you were different, I thought you were extraordinary, something special. How disappointing, how boring, how typical, to find out you have the depth of a paper plate. You are exactly as you appeared to be, nothing more than a stereotype of what people see when they look at you. And how angry I am at myself for thinking you were more.

Do you think of me? Or do you pretend I don’t exist, that I never happened, that I am embarrassing blip in your life, a temporary insanity. How easy for you to self-justify, explain it away, act like you never meant any of it. I believed you, I was genuine, I meant it. My feelings of hurt are so raw, so real, so present. I just can’t understand.

I am angry. You got that. Everyone who hears my story gets that. I am not an angry person. This anger is tiresome. I don’t want it; I don’t seek it. But I have no closure, no reason, I have no choice but to wonder. As angry as I am, I wish you would talk to me. The silent treatment only lasts as long as there is silence. I want how you hurt me to be acknowledged, I want to know: how could you. And, why, would you. Why, did you. When, will this ghost end. But what does it matter, I now know what kind of person you are. And I despise you. And how I despise myself for ever hoping.