Your friends ask you for the hundredth time what really happened between you and him. They’re baffled why you left him because he seemed to be a great guy. Some say you’ll never find that kind of love again, that you’re lucky to even have had that, and that you’re kind of an idiot for letting it go.
And then you come home and you’re greeted not by a “hello” but by a “how is he?” and “have you talked to him?” and “you guys should talk” and all the possible questions that aren’t really questions but a subtle insinuation that this is all your fault. They told you not to be too cruel and at least check how he is because he might really be miserable right now and that they’re just sad about the break-up because he’s become family.
They tell you to at least check on how he’s doing, because once upon a time he made you happy and that you can’t deny that because they all saw it.
They saw how happy he’s made you from all those photos uploaded and all those long-ass messages posted for the whole damn world to see that were so sweet, it’s disgusting. They heard it in all those happy stories both of you shared over and over. They saw how inseparable you were. They saw how you guys were a team, how you were each other’s pillars. They just couldn’t understand why you had to leave him.
Because they had no idea, did they?
They had no idea you lay in bed, restless and in tears, trying to forget the things that happened before most of those pictures were taken.
They had no clue that those long-ass messages were posted because he wanted to show the world he loved you, to prove you he didn’t mean to hit you that one time you had a fight about you going out with your friends.
They had no idea that those long fucking messages became your record to keep track of how many times he had hurt you, or insulted you, or called you names, or even shamed you.
They had no idea those happy stories happened after ugly fights over something he said he had already understood about you and promised never to be used against you. They had no idea you kept telling these stories because these were what stuck out — those were the times you tried to leave but you couldn’t. He said he loved you so much, that he was sorry, that he’d rather die than lose you, that maybe he should just end his life.
They had no idea you were inseparable not because you were a team or each other’s pillars, but because you had to be with him all the time to assure him you weren’t cheating on him, let alone talking to any other guy.
They didn’t know that those smiles in those photos you showed them were your desperate ways of convincing yourself you were happy with him.
They have no fucking clue, not even a little, because they only saw the image he wanted them to see, and you went along with it because who would ever want to admit their life is hell?
He staged one hell of a play, and there was your audience, applauding and cooing and gushing and cheering, because they’re seeing what they came to see: a fairy tale. They had no idea that once the curtains closed, what was left was the chaos you had to deal all alone.
They didn’t see the times you just couldn’t talk to him because you didn’t know how to anymore. Because he might get upset, and god is he capable of doing anything when he is.
They didn’t see how you fought for him, for both of you, and eventually just for just when you finally said, “That’s it.” When you walked away, there was no turning back.
They have no idea.
They can only see the picture.
They were just an audience.
And you have finally closed those curtains for good.
They don’t matter.