Our Friends Never Listen Even When We’re Right

You tell them,

“He doesn’t deserve you.”
They nod.
Cry.
Swear they’re done.
Then post matching heart emojis an hour later.

And you sit there thinking,
“Cool. Love that for you.”

It’s not logic.
It’s not math.
It’s trauma doing algebra with missing variables.

They stay because the pain feels familiar.
Because peace feels suspicious.
Because chaos was their lullaby,
and silence sounds like a threat.

They stay because dopamine’s a liar.
Because sometimes the monster kisses you between bites.
Because the brain would rather rewrite the story
than admit the ending sucks.

Almost happy.
Almost different.
Almost enough.

And then there’s you.
The audience to the train wreck.
Front row seat, popcorn in tears.

You try to save them because watching hurts.
Because empathy feels like a paper cut you can’t stop licking.
Because you see yourself in them—
the ghost of dumb decisions past.

You try because it gives you something to hold,
when everything else feels out of control.
Because caring feels like control,
and letting go feels like giving up.

You try because you love them,
and you’re scared that love will have to learn grief next.

But here’s the truth no one likes:
Both of you are in pain.
Just playing opposite roles in the same sad play.

They’re clinging to the fire for warmth.
You’re shouting from the smoke.

And neither of you can time the ending.

People don’t leave because they’re told.
They leave because something inside finally snaps—
when exhaustion becomes louder than hope.

And when that day comes,
when they whisper, “I think I’m done this time,”
don’t say, “Finally.”
Say, “I’m proud of you.”

Because leaving isn’t just walking away.
It’s rebirth through ashes.
And all you can do—
is stay close enough to point at the exit sign
and wait.