It has been a little more than a month since I’ve let this acute episode of cPTSD rip me away from the work that many of you who may be reading this are demanding of me. At the very least, it’s been 19 or so days since my current roommates got married, and thus 19 or so days since I’ve been plagued by flashbacks of the past decade and a half of my existence. I am still unwell of mind and emotion, and though I function well enough to take care of my body’s basic needs, any attempt to resume the duties I promised you all that I would undertake sets me back into a panic attack.

At the very least, I was able to celebrate Noto Gin’s birthday this year with a cake I made again. It was not my best work—I used two boxes of cake mix, one banana pudding and one white cake, and I only discovered that my roommates had once again thrown out the icing tips that I had originally intended to use to decorate it with roses after I mixed the blue food coloring into the icing. It did not look entirely horrible either, but the icing had also slightly melted after I brought it to a social outing, foolishly thinking that someone might celebrate the auspicious day with me despite the presence of 60 dozen donuts that residents of the building would squirrel away into their own private apartments. I brought the cake home when that party ended and sliced into it myself the next morning, took the photo above, whispered a song, and ate it alone.

I should add that no restitution has been bestowed upon me since the resolution of that incident that occurred in January 2026, because there is no(t enough) money left to pay me. It’s gone, scattered to the winds, now manifesting as almost USD$3,000 in cigarettes, energy drinks, lottery tickets, and god knows what else. I’m no expert at math, but I believe that this amount could keep a local family housed and fed for a minimum of one and a half months or so assuming it pays only for the basic necessities and they are not deeply in debt, and if they are intentional about how they spend it. I won’t shame other victims of poverty who allow themselves the occasional luxury of comfort when the chance strikes.

But it does make me bitter.

Do the people around me so easily see past the veneer of warmth and openness that I so desperately wish was a genuine facet of mine? Do they know how I wallow in my daily grief and rage and despair and understand that it is best to keep their distance from me? Do they see through the tattered remains of the shed snakeskin I wear to hide the scared young adult who called and begged their mentor/their dearest friend/their chosen brother/the first love of their life for help when their parents kicked down the door to their room, as if he could do anything to stop that familial abuse from over 2,200 miles away?

I’m not entirely sure what to do with myself at this point. And I have a confession to make: I did something I promised another friend that I wouldn’t do again, a promise I’ve kept since November 2020 because I was aware then that my toxic obsession was not doing my mental health any favors.

My findings are thus: that old friend of mine is, or at least was, alive as of August 2025.

I am sorry. His specter haunts me. He could be alive and I have no reason to believe that I am still all but dead to him.

If there is any chance that You, my most precious friend, are reading this, then I want to say, “Thank you for listening to me all those years ago,” “I’m still happy I got to know you,” “Good night, sweet dreams, I love you,” and “I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly.” I won’t say, “Fuck you for throwing me away so you could run into the arms of a man who was too happy to misgender you and force you back into femininity because he was so afraid to be gay.” I want to tell You that You were right, that I did become someone who is better than You. I want You to tell me that You envy me, that You are proud of me for becoming an amazing writer and organizer. I won’t be able to believe it until You say it, because You were the only one to ever know the hideous shape of my soul and still choose to seek out my company.

How conceited of me to think that I deserve to hear from You ever again. That I am so important as to warrant space in Your mind.

i’m sorry.

i miss you.

…

please don’t try to kill yourself again.