Between Panic and Prayer

I believe deeply in fate now. Perhaps my fate of seeing you, of going up to you and talking, has run its course—just as our fate of conversation has ended too. Even if I wanted to, I can't seem to speak anymore. These things ended long ago; I just didn't notice.

The little exchanges we have through messages—I think that fate is running out too. Over all these years, I've said so much to you, and maybe there's little left to say. The way it feels inside when I long to see you, to speak with you—how I struggle with it—only God knows. I'm keeping this short, just a little more...

Perhaps you won't have time to come, or maybe you don't want to. I'll be well by then, God willing, and I won't force your time like I did before.

Could you honor one wish of mine for just a few more days, please? When I message you frantically, asking to meet, instead of avoiding me, could you be kind? Please? Say something like "I'm trying," "I'll come soon," "I'll definitely come next weekend"—something like that, and I'll calm down on my own.

When you ignore me, it still hurts so much; I can't accept it. I'll keep you blocked so we don't talk, but if I get restless and reach out, say something—please be kind to me.

The age gap between us is so vast. What's natural for you to accept is painful for me. Anyway, forget all that—I won't burden you so much. Just be kind to me. I'll sort myself out.

It feels terrible when I act crazy trying to see you. You have no obligation to understand me, no desire to either—I know. Still, this is all I ask: please be kind, even if it's an effort. Be a little fake if you must, say sweet things, let it all be lies. You won't go to jail for it.

One never has to be harsh with a madwoman. When fate runs out, no one can stay. Mine's running out too. Give me a kind answer, won't you? You don't need to push me away—I'll leave on my own when the time comes.

I've been excluded from everything, one thing at a time. Messages, conversations, meetings—all have been cut off at your will, for your convenience. It's in your hands; whatever you do, I'm bound to accept.

All I could do was cry. God knows everything. I tell God not to punish me anymore. I can't take any more. Oh! What pain, dear God!

I used to comfort myself looking at your photos: I was with someone like this, someone who doesn't even like me, who doesn't acknowledge my existence in reality. I try to forget this past. But when I remember, I have panic attacks over and over. Tears just keep falling from my eyes.

I've written all this casually—I don't like explaining myself so much anymore. Just a request: just as you've stopped giving everything else on your own, please don't send photos either. I don't want to remember anything. Please exclude me from everything. I want peace too. I can't do this anymore; I'm so tired of chasing this lie.

That you don't reply to my messages—it actually makes me happy. I just need to change my WhatsApp number. Then you won't be able to reach me either. You won't be able to hurt me from any direction. I won't have attacks like this in the middle of the night anymore. I'll be able to sleep in peace.