⋆˚꩜｡

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐞𝐦 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐡 𝐧𝐨 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐞𝐦 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞! ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 💙💜🩷

[ims0fuckingc00l]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. ʜᴇʟʟᴏ, ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ! ⋆·˚ ༘ *

this is where i say things i’d never admit out loud

if you found this… no you didn’t

documenting my thoughts before they consume me

i’m normal about everything (i am not)

this is where the whimsical girl loses the plot

…and everything i’ll regret posting later

[ims0fuckingc00l]

EE and I plan to re unite over the next few weeks

[ims0fuckingc00l]

S10, Ep9

“PTSD”

I love this man for understanding and not reporting her for almost shooting him

[ims0fuckingc00l]

Would’ve Could’ve Should’ve.

[ims0fuckingc00l]

Would’ve Could’ve Should’ve.

[ims0fuckingc00l]

Oh my god, I was in love.

[ims0fuckingc00l]

Dear EE,

I don’t know if this is a letter, a diary entry, or just proof that I still think about you too much.

Maybe all three. I keep seeing you everywhere. Not literally. That would be easier. I see you in places you aren’t anymore.

The library.

Home Bargains.

The corner of that French classroom where you’d sit and complain about whatever teacher annoyed you that week.

I still look sometimes.

It’s embarrassing.

You never look for me.

I know because I’ve checked.

The only place I truly see you is on my wall, in photos I’m too much of a coward to take down, and your signature.

The other day I saw you through the library windows. I wasn’t even trying to.

I was doing what I always do now walking laps around the school because everyone else has somewhere to be and I don’t.

You were laughing. You laugh differently around him. I hate that I know that. You looked happy. Not pretending to be happy.

Actually happy.

And then he kissed you. Just quickly. Nothing dramatic.

The kind of kiss people do when they’re comfortable enough to forget other people exist.

You smiled afterwards.

And I think that was the part that hurt. Not the kiss. The smile. Because for months I’ve been telling myself stories. Maybe you secretly missed me. Maybe you were angry. Maybe you were confused. Maybe one day we’d accidentally end up in Home Bargains again arguing over sweets and music and everything would feel normal.

But people don’t smile like that when they’re waiting for someone else. People don’t look at someone like that if they’ve already decided to leave.

So congratulations.

I finally got the message.

You’re happy.

I hate that it makes me angry.

Not because I want you miserable.

I don’t. I just wish I wasn’t so miserable without you.

You have J. I have nobody.

That’s dramatic. I know it is.

I have people technically.

The “popular” girls still talk to me sometimes. But only when they’re annoyed at you. Or annoyed at T. Or when they want information or someone to start drama. Or when they want someone to laugh at.

They don’t actually like me.

They like the version of me they made up.

The loud one. The mean one. The chav.

The one you think I became again.

I spent my night dying my hair, I know you liked me best when I had pink hair.

The truth is I spend most lunches walking around by myself. Just walking. One lap. Then another. Then another.

Like if I keep moving nobody will notice I have nowhere to go. And every now and then I pass the library and catch myself looking through the windows.

Still.

Like some pathetic dog waiting outside a shop.

Maybe that’s why J hates me.

Maybe he saw this part of me before I did.

The part that gets attached to people so hard it feels like losing a limb when they leave.

I still hate him.

I probably always will.

Every time I look at him I see every bad thing that’s happened since he arrived.

Every fight.

Every argument.

Every time you chose him instead of me.

But sometimes I wonder if hating him is easier than accepting you made that choice yourself.

Because if he stole you, then maybe you would’ve stayed.

If he manipulated you, maybe none of this is your fault.

But if you looked at both of us and picked him…

then what does that say about me?

The worst part is that I don’t even hate myself anymore.

Not really.

I hate the fact everyone else does.

That’s different.

People always tell you to love yourself.

As if that’s the difficult part.

I could love myself.

I know I’m funny.

I know I’m smart.

I know I can write.

I know I care too much.

I know I’m loyal to the point of stupidity.

The problem isn’t me.

The problem is walking into a room and feeling people decide who you are before you open your mouth.

The problem is hearing your name and immediately wondering what they’ve been saying about you.

The problem is knowing that no matter how hard you try, somebody somewhere is still telling a version of your story where you’re the villain.

And maybe I am.

I don’t know anymore.

Maybe that’s what happens when enough people tell you the same thing.

You start wondering if they’re right.

I miss you.

Not his girlfriend.

Not the girl who avoids looking at me in hallways.

I miss my EE.

The one who screamed about music in Home Bargains.

The one who wrote her signature on my wall.

The one who stayed up until three in the morning talking about things neither of us understood.

I don’t think she’s coming back.

And I think that’s the part I’m finally starting to understand.

You aren’t my favourite person anymore.

You’re just a person.

A person I loved.

A person I lost.

A person who chose a different life.

And if I’m honest, I think that’s what hurts most.

Not that you hate me.

Not even that you left.

It’s that you seem okay without me.

And I’m still learning how to be okay without you.

-Yours truly,

[ims0fuckingc00l]

I got suspended from school omg.

[ims0fuckingc00l]

EE and I are over.

[ims0fuckingc00l]

My dearest EE,

I cannot tell if you hate me now or if I am simply dramatic enough to imagine it into existence. Maybe that is what he would say. He always thought I could turn anything into a tragedy if it meant the spotlight landed on me for long enough.

He never liked me.

You know that, don’t you?

From the second he met me he saw through everything through the pretty smiles and fake innocence and the way I pretend kindness comes naturally to me. He looked at me like he knew there was something rotten underneath it all. Like he knew I was selfish before I did. He knew exactly where to press to make me unravel. Every sentence from him felt like being dissected under fluorescent light.

An attention whore.

That is what he thought I was.

Maybe he was right.

I keep replaying everything in my head trying to figure out where you stopped choosing me. Was it when I asked you to come out that night? Was it when things went wrong afterward? Because I never forced you, EE. I need you to believe that. I would ask once and you would say yes and somehow when everything collapsed it became my fault for asking at all.

And maybe it was.

Maybe I ruin people simply by wanting them too much.

But then he tried to kill himself and suddenly you cared in a way I had never seen before. You stayed up for him. You answered every call. You forgave every awful thing. And I remember thinking something so cruel and pathetic that I still feel sick admitting it:

Would she love me like that if I did the same thing?

So I did something about it.

And you still did not care.

Or maybe you cared differently. Maybe not in the loud catastrophic way I wanted. Maybe I wanted proof that I mattered enough to destroy yourself over. Isn’t that disgusting?

I know what people think of me. I know exactly what I look like from the outside. The selfish popular girl who swooped in one day to play heroine for the strange sad girl nobody noticed. The girl who made you interesting enough for people to suddenly learn your name.

God, even writing that makes me sound monstrous.

But none of them understand that I loved you long before anyone else did.

I loved you when you called me at two in the morning crying so hard you could barely breathe. I loved you when you told me secrets so ugly and frightening I knew they would stain me forever. I loved you when you thought nobody else could.

Now every time I text you it is the same thing.

“I’m with him.”

“I can’t.”

“Maybe later.”

And I wonder if you tell him everything now. If he gets the late night phone calls. If he knows the shape of your sadness the way I used to.

I read your blog sometimes.

The secret one.

The one you think nobody knows about.

I read it whenever I miss you badly enough to feel nauseous, and every single time it teaches me the same thing: I failed. Not at fixing you, I never could have done that , but at fixing myself.

Because that is the horrible truth of me, isn’t it?

I can only save other people.

I know how to hold bleeding things together with my bare hands while I quietly rot beside them. I know how to make people feel loved right until the moment they no longer need me. Then I become unbearable. Then I become too much.

A savior is only loved while there is still something left to rescue.

And saviors, EE, cannot be saved.

— YL

[ims0fuckingc00l]

Goodbye forever I’ve taken the pills I love you all

[ims0fuckingc00l]

I’ve not cried this hard since I was 9 years old and in hospital for an accidental overdose

[ims0fuckingc00l]

Fuck I already regret it If I die from this know I tried my best to be a good person

[ims0fuckingc00l]

I’m actually going to end my life officially everyone in the year group hates me

[ims0fuckingc00l]

SHE HATES ME IM GONNA KMS

[ims0fuckingc00l]

Never had the courage of my convictions

[ims0fuckingc00l]

STOP BEING A FUCKING ADDICT YOU WHORE I DONT EVEN RECOGNISE YOU ANYMORE YOU MAKE ME WANT TO KILL MYSELF WHEN YOU HANG OUT WITH HIM OR WHEN YOU SMOKE WEED I LOVE YOU SO I CARE.