Worst thing you can do to an X is bloom right in his face. Grow tall, grow loud, take all the light, leave him no fucking space. I had plans for every little flower, every thorn and every vine— I was gonna make him watch me thrive. I was gonna make him watch me shine. My fool of an X is dead and gone, what a fucking waste. I saved up all my meanest jokes for the day I’d rub them in his face. I had the perfect little victory, I had the whole thing mapped— and then the selfish bastard died before I got to laugh. I wanted to watch his engine stall while I flowered through the cracks. I wanted every little bit of me to shove itself right back. I wanted him to see me laughing, stronger than before— but the bastard took the easy way and slammed the fucking door. How dare he die and ruin my fun? The ultimate ghosting— look what he’s done. Can’t text a ghost. Can’t make him squirm. Can’t show him what he lost or watch him fucking burn. He escaped the final scene. What a cheap dramatic trick. I spent years preparing my revenge and he fucking died of it. My fool of an X is dead and gone, and honestly—how rude. I had a whole damn garden growing just to show him what I could do. I was gonna bloom right in his face, I was gonna make him choke— but now I’m standing in the sunshine with nobody left to watch. Worst thing you can do to an X is bloom and carry on. The second you become magnificent, they should still be around. Unfortunately, mine fucked off first. What a waste.
