Chapter 59: Utterly Disgusted
Qaffeine, Again
I felt hunted.
There’s a difference.
The kind of person who shows up only when convenience kicks in.
Missing in action for almost two years, then suddenly messaging like it’s a reunion special.
Like a melodrama ~
“Hi, I’m depressed.”
Right — and apparently I’m the emotional therapist on standby.
I listened.
I thought it was basic human compassion.
Turns out it was an entry point.
A trap.
He didn’t want help — he wanted attention.
He wanted access, comfort, validation, whatever he could squeeze out of someone who actually has empathy.
And there it was —
the word vomit of obsession.
“I love you.”
Out of absolutely nowhere, like a toddler throwing a tantrum and calling it poetry.
My relationship? My privacy? My boundaries?
Not his concern.
Because apparently, if he feels something, everyone else should reorganize their lives accordingly.
He behaves as if his entire world revolves around me.
And every time he crossed the line, he apologized.
Not because he cared.
Because he wanted permission to do it again.
And again.
And again.
Like clockwork.
Like caffeine withdrawals — jittery, obsessive, pathetic.
What pisses me off most isn’t even the “love” declaration.
It’s the desperation masquerading as sincerity.
The manipulation disguised as vulnerability.
The belief that persistence equals entitlement.
That my kindness equals availability.
That my silence equals an invitation.
Let me be clear:
I am not his safety net.
I am not his drama arc.
I am not the person who exists to absorb his mess when life gets inconvenient.
Qaffeine thinks he’s a stimulant.
Something energizing.
Something addictive.
Something that makes you feel alive.
Please.
He’s the leftover coffee at the back of the fridge —
stale, sour, and long past the point of being tolerable.
Like a cheap instant coffee brand that thinks it’s an artisanal roast.
Piss off.