It’s a weird kind of betrayal—the soft kind. The oops kind. The "I thought you were busy" kind.
I didn’t get invited tonight. Dom said I had "other stuff going on." I guess my RSVP is now automatic. Or irrelevant.
It’s a subtle move. Like moving your portrait a few inches to the left so it’s no longer in the frame. No one's going to ask about the absence unless they miss the silence.
Astrid was there. I saw her. Of course she was. Silas too. They looked like a headline I didn’t want to read.
I don’t want to assume malice. But I know what passive sabotage smells like. It’s like something died, and everyone just lights more incense.
I’m not angry. Not really. Just... cataloguing.
If this is how it starts, I want to remember the moment I realized I was no longer part of the ecosystem.
I want to remember how it felt to be edited out of the narrative without a single line of dialogue.
Maybe that’s the art now. Writing the parts they didn’t think I’d notice.
If I’m the problem, why do they keep using my name?