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Scorpio Truth #1: The Ghost I Still Make Tea For


 I’m not waiting for him.

I’m mourning the part of me that still answered the phone.

He’s not a mystery. He’s a pattern.
And I’ve studied it for 25 years.

He dangles comfort like a charm.
Touches just enough of my past to make me doubt the future.
Calls, then disappears.
Reels me in, then floats away—
like a fisherman who doesn’t need to eat, just enjoys the catch.

He’s a career sociopath.
A master of the half-apology,
the breadcrumb,
the emotional U-turn.

He knows I’m here.
That’s enough for him.
He doesn’t want me whole—
just reachable.
Just in orbit.
Just quiet.

Sometimes I block him.
Sometimes I ghost him like he’s ghosted every promise.
And sometimes, I still answer—
not for him,
but to hear how much of me still needs to prove I’m worth loving.

I’m not scared of being alone.
I’m scared of finally letting go
and having no more excuses for why I stayed so long.

Because if he wasn’t love,
what was I chasing?
If I was never chosen,
what was I calling connection?

He liked me best when I was broken and begging.
When my silence meant submission, not self-preservation.

But I’m not soft like I used to be.
I’m sharp now.
Sharper than his stories.
Sharper than his hands.
Sharper than his memory of me.

He doesn’t get to be my ending.
Not when he never offered a beginning.

And if this post feels like a goodbye—
It is.

But not to him.
To the woman who waited.
To the woman who loved loud and got quiet in return.
To the woman who picked up the phone
every time her loneliness sounded like his number.

She’s gone.
I’m what came after.

Writing in smoke, truth in my teeth—

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