The Angel I Invented

People used to call me a demon.

Not because I hurt others…

but because I could see things nobody else wanted to see.

The sadness behind fake smiles.

The emptiness hidden inside love.

The quiet presence of death following everyone like a patient shadow.

And him…

he looked like an angel.

He always appeared when my mind became too loud.

Sitting beside me in empty hallways, smoking in silence while the rest of the world kept pretending life was beautiful.

He understood my exhaustion without asking questions.

And I became addicted to that feeling.

We were never lovers.

That would have been easier.

We were friends so painfully close that our feelings rotted into something impossible to name.

I needed him to survive myself.

And he needed me to feel real.

We spent nights talking about death like it was an old friend waiting for us somewhere in the dark.

About loneliness.

About how painful it was to exist when you felt everything too deeply.

Sometimes he looked at me like he wanted to save me.

Other times like he wanted to drag me into the abyss with him.

And I let him.

Because when someone understands your darkness perfectly…

you stop caring whether they are saving you or destroying you.

Over time, he stopped looking like an angel.

He became cold.

Cruel with words.

Possessive in the most silent ways.

He learned every wound inside me and touched them whenever he felt me slipping away.

And somehow…

I started becoming softer.

Like I was trying to save the monster he was turning into.

He took my darkness.

And I carried his.

We destroyed each other slowly while calling it protection.

Some nights we screamed until our throats hurt,

then sat together in silence like two dying stars refusing to collapse alone.

We loved each other.

We hated each other.

And neither of us could leave.

Because when someone knows every corner of your soul…

they also know exactly where to stab.

One night I finally asked him the question that ruined everything.

“Why do you never leave?”

He stayed quiet for a long time.

Then smiled with a sadness that made my chest ache.

And whispered:

“Because if I leave… you will too.”

That was the moment I noticed something horrifying.

Nobody ever talked to him.

Nobody looked at him.

Nobody reacted when he walked beside me.

But I ignored it for so long because accepting the truth meant accepting that I was alone.

He was never alive.

Never.

He was death wearing the shape of companionship.

The grim reaper sitting beside me every time I wanted to disappear.

The only thing capable of following me even inside my own mind.

That’s why he understood me so well.

Why he appeared whenever I cried.

Why he never abandoned me.

He wasn’t my friend.

He was something trying to protect me from myself while slowly falling in love with the sadness living inside me.

And maybe I changed him too.

Because even death can become cruel when it loves someone who keeps begging the world to let her die.

The last time I saw him,

he sat across from me in complete silence.

I was crying.

And somehow…

he looked heartbroken too.

“We destroyed each other,” I whispered.

He shook his head slowly.

“No,” he said.

“We just stayed too long.”

Then he disappeared.

And the world continued like nothing happened.

People kept walking.

Lights kept shining.

Morning still arrived.

But sometimes…

late at night…

I still feel someone sitting beside me while cigarette smoke fills the air.

And for one terrible second,

I still want to turn around and see him again.

“He was death.

And I loved him anyway.” 

@NewGirlDark

“We were never meant to save each other… only to survive together until nothing was left.