BETRAYAL

» 𝒮𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒, 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓀 𝓈𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒹 »

Have you ever heard the saying,
“Be careful who you trust, for salt and sugar look the same”?

It’s a quiet warning, cloaked in simplicity,
and yet it speaks of the oldest kind of wound: betrayal.

There are those who wear the mask of tenderness so flawlessly, you almost forget it’s a mask.
They speak the language of love with ease,
but it is rehearsed, measured,
spoken not from the heart,
but from a place of strategy.

They offer warmth that leaves you cold,
comfort laced with invisible poison.
They never raise their voice,
but somehow,
your soul ends up bruised.

This is the paradox of refined betrayal:
it doesn’t scream, it whispers.

It doesn’t leave. It STAYS.

So you question your intuition.
You rewrite their intentions in softer ink
just to keep believing.

But here lies the hidden gift beneath the rupture:

One day, you stop asking,
“Why did they hurt me?”
and you begin asking,
“Why did I keep dancing in the theatre of their cruelty?”

And that is when truth arrives,
not as an explosion,
but as a quiet clarity,
like sunlight gently flooding a dark room.

You see them as they are,
not as they wish to be seen.
And more importantly,
you see yourself,
as someone who finally chooses peace
over performance, over arguments, over being right, truth over illusion,
dignity over desperation.

You stop begging for affection
from those who only know how to counterfeit it.
You stop explaining your worth
to those who were never truly listening.

You stop mistaking softness that cuts
for love that heals.

And from that stillness,
from that beautiful silence after the storm,
you begin again.
Not bitter,
but AWAKE. LUCID.

You build wings from the ashes.
Not to escape,
but to rise,
wiser, lighter,
and no longer available
for the kind of love
that asks you to disappear
in order to be seen.