My Regret

I ghosted someone I genuinely cared about. Not in some dramatic, villain way—more like a slow fade. I told myself I was sparing them the messy version of me, sparing the situation, sparing my “mental health.” The truth is, I was avoiding discomfort. I didn’t want to have an honest conversation where I might have to admit I was scared, uncertain, or just not sure how to show up.

For a while, it felt like control. Like disappearing was a kinder option than saying, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” But weeks turned into silence, and silence turned into damage. They deserved clarity, even if the answer was hard.

I regret choosing comfort over truth. If I could rewind, I’d show up—late, imperfect, and real—rather than vanish.