I didn’t expect heartbreak to feel like this—like killing a dream I built with my own hands. Not because he betrayed me, not because he lied, but because he never promised me anything at all. And yet, I made him everything.

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He never said he’d be my king. He never whispered forever. He gave me nothing—just fragments, just silence—and from that nothing, I invented something. I wrote a story in my head where he was the hero, and I was the one worth saving.

But today, I had to kill that story. I had to kill the man who lived only in my imagination. It sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? But grief doesn’t care if the loss was real or fictional. It hurts all the same.

I’m mourning a character I created. A version of him that never existed outside my mind. And yet, she—the woman who loved him—was real. She was me. And now, she’s gone too.

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So here I am, burying a dream no one else knew about. A quiet funeral for a love that never breathed. and here is the truth: sometimes the hardest goodbye is to the story you told yourself.