April 24, 2025

I hate how much I miss her.

It’s pathetic, really—how someone can carve themselves so deeply into your life that even when they’re long gone, the hollow space they leave behind still aches. I think about her more than I admit to anyone, and every time I do, it feels like a sharp stab right in my chest. It’s not just sadness. It’s anger. Regret. Confusion. All wrapped up in this tight knot I can’t unravel.

The worst part? I was the one who ended it. I was the one who finally said, “Enough,” who let the silence settle in and didn’t try to fix it this time. But even then, I didn’t feel powerful or strong. I just felt empty. Like I’d set fire to something that once meant everything to me, and now I can only watch the smoke rise.

She had this hold on me that I never quite understood. One day, she’d be my person—the one who laughed with me until we cried, who knew how to say exactly what I needed. And then, the next day, she’d turn cold. Dismissive. Cruel, even. And I’d still come running when she reached out again. Every. Damn. Time.

And don’t even get me started on her boyfriend. He treated her like absolute garbage—everyone saw it. Everyone knew it. But she stayed. And no matter what I said, no matter how many times I tried to pull her back to reality, it was always him she picked. Always. Like my friendship, my loyalty, my love—none of it could ever compete with the chaos she seemed to crave.

I hated him for hurting her. But sometimes I think I hated her more for letting him.

I want to be done with her. I want to erase every late-night conversation, every photo still buried in my phone, every memory that hits me like a wave when I least expect it. But I can’t. Because deep down, underneath all the bitterness and pain, I still miss her.

And I hate that most of all.

— Jordan McKay