Insight of a Kenyan Girl

At what point do emotions run dry?

Is it after the thousandth time you hoped only to be left standing in the ruins of another almost?
Is it after love keeps showing up like a reckless storm, making promises and never staying long enough to rebuild what it keeps breaking?
Or does it happen slowly… subtly… the way silence creeps into a once-lively room unnoticed until you realize you’ve been living in the quiet for months?

I don’t know when it happened.
I just know it did.
One day I woke up and the well was dry.

No more sparks.
No butterflies.
Not even the hollow ache that used to follow the disappointment.
Just… nothing.

These days, when someone proclaims love to me when they say the words with conviction, like they expect a grand reaction all I feel is a strange mix of nausea and laughter.
The kind of laughter that isn’t joyful.
The kind you exhale when the pain has settled so deep, even crying feels like too much effort.
The kind of laughter that tastes like disbelief.
Because how dare you speak of love to me now, like I haven’t already died in the arms of its betrayal?

Because either way let’s be honest I was always the one who knocked first.
I was the one who begged for time.
I was the one who stayed up waiting, who sent the long texts, who tried to be understanding, patient, soft.
I was the one who watched other women get flowers while I got silence.
I was the one who gave and gave not because I was naive, but because I truly believed love was worth it.

I was available when they weren’t.
Now I’m unavailable when they finally are.

And the irony doesn’t even sting.
It just confirms what I already knew: timing was never the problem effort was.

I remember when I used to believe in love.
Not fairytales no.
Just… something steady.
Someone kind.
A place to rest my heart without always having to defend it.

But now? Now when they ask to meet for lunch, coffee, dinner, a “quick catch-up” I feel my chest tighten.
Not from excitement.
Not from nerves.
But from the quiet protest of a heart that’s too tired to pretend anymore.

And he keeps asking.
Again and again.
Like maybe this time I’ll say yes.
Like maybe I’m just playing hard to get.
But I’m not.
I’m just done.

There’s a heaviness that comes after you’ve been broken one too many times ,a weight that settles in your bones, in your voice, in your laughter that no longer reaches your eyes.
It’s not just sadness.
It’s the exhaustion of giving your all, only to be treated like you were always disposable.
It’s the bitterness of having to heal from wounds you never asked for.
It’s watching the parts of you that used to glow… slowly go dim.

Sometimes I wonder did I grow up, or did they finally kill the part of me that still believed?

You see, no one tells you that heartbreak isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s quiet.
Sometimes it looks like waking up and not checking your phone anymore.
Sometimes it’s sitting across from someone who says all the right things, and realizing you no longer care.
Sometimes it’s laughing at a love song that once made you cry.

I used to write poems about love.
Now I write elegies for the girl I used to be
The girl who wore her heart like a flower on her sleeve,
Who gave chances like candy,
Who thought “maybe this time” would finally mean something.

But she’s gone now.
And in her place stands someone stronger.
Not colder just… aware.
Aware of what she deserves.
Aware of what she’ll no longer settle for.
Aware that sometimes, healing means walking away not in anger, but in silence.

I miss her sometimes.
But I don’t want her back.

Because now I know:
You can only be burned so many times before the fire no longer scares you it bores you.
You can only cry so many nights before your tears become prayers.
You can only be broken so many times before your heart stops asking for softness and starts craving peace.

So no, I won’t go to lunch.
I won’t sit across from you and pretend I haven’t already buried everything you’re trying to resurrect.
And I won’t apologize for the way I’ve grown not out of bitterness, but out of necessity.

Because this is what happens when the heart finally gets tired:
It doesn’t scream.
It doesn’t beg.
It just goes quiet.

And sometimes… silence is the loudest goodbye.