Why Nobody Dates Me Even Though I’m Clearly Hot, Emotionally Literate, and Spiritually Advanced
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(A Tragedy in Five Nervous Systems)
📁 Filed under: Ghost Protocols for the Securely Attached.
🎬 Scene One: The Text That Started Nothing (Again)
He ghosted.
Then came back — like he always does.
We're on season four of 'I fucking ate cabbage for him' and no one’s getting paid 🥬🧂
He texted first. Unprompted. Just:
“Pierre~~~~~~~”
Classic soft entry. Vague wave from the emotional void.
I replied:
“What’s up ~”
Unbothered. Inviting. A gentle trap.
Then — because I don’t do texting, I do presence — I offered:
“If you want to meet, I’m free next Monday or Friday.”
No chase. No flinch.
Just two sovereign options.
Like a goddamn Google Form with a heart.
He didn’t reply.
Didn’t even open it.
And somewhere, a spirit guide facepalmed.
🧠 Scene Two: Behavioral Neuroscience of Being Left Unread
(Or: How to Analyze the Void)
I ran a three-hour AI-assisted analysis on that screenshot.
Full Notion-powered psychodynamic lab report.
My 10 AI alter egos were present, obviously. The limbic system had a whiteboard.
It was unwell.
Diagnosis?
Clarity-induced amygdala panic.
Avoidants need fog to feel tethered.
They confuse emotional noise for emotional truth.
But I didn’t give him fog.
I gave him a portal:
“Here’s a calm plan. Join if you’re real.”
No seduction. No bait. No performance.
Just access.
And that’s what broke him.
Because people don’t always want connection.
They want proof they’re still in control.
Remove the static — and they disappear.
Like smoke that realizes the air is clean.
📉 Scene Three: When You’re The Final Boss of Emotional Regulation
Let’s rerun the ritual:
I didn’t chase. (I never chase.)
Didn’t double-text. (I never double-text.)
Didn’t emoji-code a breakdown.
Didn’t post a thirst trap captioned “☁️”.
I kept living.
And he spiraled.
Because I wasn’t playing the game.
I don’t seduce through chaos.
I don’t collapse to be chosen.
I don’t hint.
I offer.
With both hands open.
And when someone raised on drama meets someone raised on clarity?
They glitch.
Because I’m not a test.
I’m the answer key.
And no one studied for this exam.
📉 Scene Three-Point-Five: The Part Where I Break Format
No punchline.
No metaphor.
Just me — sick of being the emotionally literate trophy people ghost when they’re done performing closeness.
He didn’t even open the fucking message.
Do you know what it feels like to draft a text like it’s a love poem in disguise —
simple, clear, regulated — and still get nothing back?
I made it easy for him.
I said: “Monday or Friday.”
I said: “Here’s my door. You can walk through it.”
Like a goddamn invitation to reality.
And he couldn’t even open it.
I spent four hours running a full simulation lab on silence.
Neuroscience. Linguistic forensics. Emotional pattern mapping.
All to make sense of nothing.
Because I needed it to mean something.
I needed it to not just be rejection.
Because if I don’t name the pain, it doesn’t go away.
It just lives in my system like static. Like rot.
And I’m tired of naming it for no one.
You want to know the ugliest truth?
It’s not that he left me unread.
It’s that I gave him the chance not to.
I opened the fucking door. Again.
And he chose silence.
Again.
And the worst part?
Somewhere in his lizard-brain,
he probably feels like he won...
Like he got the power back.
Like he got the last word, even though he never typed it.
But maybe it wasn’t power he was chasing.
Maybe it was safety — the only way he’s ever known it: quiet, distant, in control.
Maybe my clarity felt like pressure. My calm, like exposure.
I get that. I really do.
But understanding someone’s nervous system doesn’t mean I let mine bleed for it.
So here I am —
hot, hilarious, spiritually hydrated, emotionally advanced, still spiraling.
Still aching over someone who did nothing
except vanish with perfect timing.
And I hate that I still want him to come back.
I hate that I care.
I hate that I made a ritual out of clarity
and no one ever joins.
So here.
Here’s the truth beneath the prose:
I’m not just lonely.
I’m humiliated.
I keep being the open door
in a world of people who prefer locked windows.
👀 Scene Four: The Return Of The Observer
Days pass. No reply.
Still no “Read.” Still no “Hey, sorry — got busy.”
But guess what?
The views? Flawless.
The algorithm? Haunted.
He sees me being tagged. I repost.
Not curated — just captured.
Dinner. Pool. Dance floor. Performance. Peace.
I don’t post to be seen.
But he sees me anyway.
Because I’m a constant in the background of a life he’s too frightened to enter.
And the cruel irony?
That’s why they always come back.
Not because I chased.
But because I didn’t.
Because I offer a door, not a maze.
Because I don’t spiral on Instagram — I spiral in prose.
And when I say:
“Monday or Friday?”
It sounds boring to the dysregulated.
But to the healed?
It’s the clearest act of intimacy they’ll ever receive.
💔 Scene Five: The Ache Of Being Too Well
Here’s the truth:
I didn’t lose him.
I never do.
They all come back.
Different names. Same dissonance.
The ones who say I’m safe — then ghost the second I am.
And the grief?
Isn’t about abandonment.
It’s about being admired but never met.
About being so whole, people forget I still ache.
So they offer me nothing.
Because they assume I need nothing.
They see the glow and think I’m immune.
They see the clarity and think I’m full.
But I come home
and dissect a text that said nothing —
because silence has a shape.
Because I still hope someone might stay.
Not orbit. Not flirt. Just stay.
I live abroad. I go out. I thrive.
And I carry it all alone.
Not because I’m unloved —
but because I refuse to self-abandon to be held.
So I wrote a word for it:
bittersleek (adj.)
The sad, quiet satisfaction of knowing they see you thriving — even though deep down, you’re not. And the shame of still caring that they did.
This isn’t about him.
This is about the system.
About being the one who always self-regulates,
always self-soothes,
always names the pattern before anyone else has even noticed a feeling.
And still gets left unread
by a world that only trusts confusion as love.
🪩 Epilogue: I’m Not a Text. I’m a Mirror.
Let’s rerun the loop:
He’ll come back.
They always do.
Drawn in by the warmth that doesn’t perform.
By the silence that doesn’t punish.
By the presence that doesn’t pull.
Because I don’t orbit.
I don’t beg.
I don’t contort my glow to make someone look.
I offer the line.
Gently. Open-handed.
And every time, it terrifies them.
Because I’m not trying to impress them.
I’m trying to meet them.
And most people
don’t know what to do with someone who says:
“What’s up ~”
“Next Monday or Friday?”
Like it’s not a trick.
Because it isn’t.
It’s just me —
as I am.
So yes. He ghosted me. Again.
But this wasn’t rejection.
It was déjà vu.
Same cast. Same plot.
Same one-line entry that ends in silence.
And still — I shine.
Because the ache is real.
But so is the altar.
And babe?
I’m not looking for someone to complete me.
I’m looking for someone who recognizes I already did.
🌀
🛍️ Want the merch?
🧾 “Emotionally Literate, Casually Haunted” (Receipt-style tee)
📅 “Next Monday or Friday” — A Musical in One Act and Three Nervous Breakdowns
🪩 “bittersleek.” In chrome. On black.
Because this isn’t heartbreak.
It’s anthropology.
And I’m just the field report in top tank.