You didn't get caught — you got bored of hiding it. Looked me dead in the eye, called me paranoid, then texted them goodnight from our bed. The "nothing" had a name. I have a list.

You lied so reflexively the truth started sounding like an accent on you. You'd lie about things that didn't even matter, just to keep the muscle warm for the ones that did.

Every promise was a down payment on a lie you hadn't told yet. "I've changed" — you hadn't. You'd just run out of people who didn't know you yet.

You'd have cheated on the person you were cheating with. Loyalty wasn't a value, it was a costume you wore until something more convenient walked past.

You stabbed me and then asked to borrow a bandage. Played the victim in a story you wrote, directed, and set on fire. Brutus took notes. Judas asked for your number.

You tried to take the friends as a parting gift — whispering your "side" at every brunch, crying on cue. They nodded, hugged you goodbye, and texted me every word on the drive home. You didn't take them. You just gave them the full tour of who you are. Now you've got a whole room of people you poisoned, and not one of them picks up.

You don't have a personality, you have a browser history. Every opinion borrowed, every "interest" a costume you tried on because someone cooler wore it first. Strip away the people you mimic and there's just weather in there. "Pathetic" isn't an insult — it's a measurement.

Not the loud kind — the quiet, wounded-bird kind. "I'm just so broken" so you'd never have to be accountable for a single thing. You hunted soft people on purpose: the over-explainers, the over-apologizers, the ones who'd mistake your neediness for depth. You didn't fall in love. You found a host.

You poked, and prodded, and rewrote the day until I finally snapped — then hit record. Months spent building a version of me to show people, then using my reaction to your provocation as the evidence. You didn't want a partner. You wanted a witness statement. Here's mine, on the record: I know exactly what you did.

Not just mine — all of them. Family, the friends, the coworkers, the group chat that finally muted you, the people who gave you tenth chances. You torched every bridge you ever stood on and then acted stunned to be stranded. There's no one left on the other side. There's no other side. Just you, alone on an island you set on fire, wondering why it got so quiet.

You'd shower, sure — then pull the same crusty clothes back on like they were court-ordered. You didn't live in a space, you happened to it: a trail of wrappers, cups, and dishes you "meant to get to" marking every room like a crime scene. I could've found you in the dark by the smell of the floor. Cleanliness was right there. So was the door.