A good morning. A song. A nearly. Then silence for three days. I am not starving. I hate being fed in teaspoons by a coward.
Tag: ghosting
We swap memes and late voice notes. Nobody asks what this is. The talking stage is just two people auditioning without agreeing the job exists.
Hinting is not mystery. It is cowardice with better lighting. I would rather a blunt no than a man performing confusion all week long here.
He replies just enough to keep me warm. Never enough to make a plan. Benching is the new ghosting with better manners and worse timing.
Vulnerability is treated like an ick now. I joke instead. Then I want to say it in daylight and my mouth does that stupid freeze.
The chase was fun. Then I texted first in daylight and the spark died. Some men only want the me that leaves at dawn anyway.
It was good. Too good, maybe. Next day he talks about timing and work stress. I know a retreat when I am watching one clearly.
It is a trick. If I look busy and shiny, rejection cannot land. Then I am on the sofa checking he viewed the story again.
Not in bed. In the head. They want the filthy girl until she asks what Saturday looks like. That is when they need space first.
It is a man who liked attention, not the Tuesday. Stop dressing it as complexity. If he cannot say what this is, it is nothing.