Who Won?

There were times during this breakup when I felt like I had to win.

As if heartbreak were a competition—

and whoever recovered fastest, smiled brightest, or looked strongest

took the prize.

Sometimes I believed they had won.

The stories I made up in my head were enchanting—

full-on fairytale romance fantasy,

the kind BookTok would turn into a trending hashtag.

But with distance, I can see the truth clearly now:

no one won.

Not me.

Not him.

And especially not her.

I didn’t win, because what I faced wasn’t a breakup.

It was a soul transformation I never asked for.

I wrote my way out of the wreckage because there was no other way out.

And yes, I’m making the best of the worst emotional and psychological experience of my life—

but that’s not winning.

That’s surviving.

He didn’t win either.

Because at the end of the day, he’s still him—

all smiles, charm, and brilliance on the outside,

carrying the weight of what he did,

to me and others, on the inside.

That’s not winning.

That’s avoidance.

The unwillingness to take accountability.

To face the shame.

It’s cowardice disguised as optimism and toxic positivity.

It is deeply rooted rot, left to flourish and grow.

And she?

She absolutely didn’t win.

Because she let him come back after a previous discard.

Maybe the love-bombing will last longer this time,

because he’s desperate to rewrite his story—

to prove himself good, lovable, worthy.

To prove he means it this time, and won't change his mind.

But shaky foundations don’t fix themselves magically.

And who wants to come directly behind me?

Especially since he had me on such a high pedestal.

I was the fantasy, the premium supply he worked hard to acquire.

And things did not end cleanly.

To review—

No one won.

Not her.

Not him.

Not me.

But if there’s a prize for facing yourself—

for burning, and still choosing light,

and facing your demons so you don’t spread the poison—

then maybe that’s mine.