He taught me how to love him, and then he disappeared right before my eyes could blink.

My dearest love with bpd. I still carry the words you wrote to me like they're etched into my skin,

the way you broke down our connection with such certainty, turning our birthdays, our struggles, our random coincidences into proof that we were meant to find each other. You said my birth year was the 1: new beginnings, creation, leadership. My 1999 was the 9, and your birth date on the 9th, your birthday 9 days after mine, even the 333 on my hat, it all pointed to completion, wisdom, the end of karmic cycles.

You called it the full cycle of life: me sparking something new, you helping close what needed to end. Spiritual initiation and lessons learned, wrapped up in us.

You pointed to the angel numbers everywhere…

333 as divine guidance, the universe saying we were supported and aligned for a higher purpose.

999 as the signal to let go of the past, to step into whatever came next.

You said our synchronicities weren't accidents: unknowingly being in the same places before we met, our debit card pin numbers matching like the universe was winking, the mirrored hardships, our families addiction, our homelessness, scraping by through the same kind of chaos. You framed it as karmic, not random. A bond where we were mirrors for each other: Me showing you resilience and how to survive the worst, You guiding me toward spiritual awakening because you were farther along that path.

You wrote that I was your catalyst, my light to help you see beyond the physical pain you'd carried. That together we were healing old wounds, closing unresolved karma, transforming into higher versions of ourselves. You even tied in your mescaline trip—the one where time dissolved completely, everything past, present, and future happening at once, a profound sense of oneness washing over everything. You said it fit our story perfectly: our chaos wasn't some linear punishment; it was all part of the same interconnected design, unfolding in divine timing to prepare us both for rebirth and higher alignment.And for a while, I believed every word you said. I loved you so deeply it felt cosmic. You were my twin flame, my soul, the person who confided in me the way I confided in you. Those late-night talks where we'd laugh until it hurt, where you always knew exactly how to make everything feel magical and destined. But then the storms came—the ones I didn't fully understand because I didn't know bipolar (or whatever version of it lived inside you) could twist things so completely. The highs that made me feel invincible, the lows that left me crying later, questioning my own reality. My friends saw what I refused to: that you were becoming everything I always said I didn't want—unpredictable, pulling me in only to push away, the little psychological cuts that added up without ever leaving a mark on my skin. You never hurt me physically, not even the slightest. But psychologically? I'm still trying to gather the pieces of myself. The gaslighting, the inconsistency, the way promises and follow-through disappeared when I needed them most.

I wonder now if what you loved was truly me, or the stability I could offer—emotional when yours shattered, financial when the ground felt unsteady beneath you. Did the universe really align all those signs—those numbers, those mirrored pains—for a love that would leave me this broken and distraught? Or did I hold onto the beautiful, spiritual story you painted because it made the hurt feel like it had purpose?I don't know if I'll ever hear the truth from you. You never seemed to believe there's anything that needs changing, and maybe in your world, there isn't.

Bipolar is one hell of a force; it bends reality, makes steadiness feel like a threat. But I loved you very much fiercely, completely, in the moments when it all felt like fate had written us into the same page. You were everything I ever dreamed of: the passion, the depth, the way you saw divine meaning in our mess. And you were everything I feared: the chaos, the emotional rollercoaster, the doubt that settled in my bones and won't leave.

I'm not waiting anymore for the version of you that might come back once the cycles closes. I'm trying to accept that our story—karmic, numbered, full of synchronicities—was real in its fire and its intensity, but perhaps never meant to last the way we both imagined. The universe may have brought us together to heal something, to teach something, to end something. And maybe that ending is what's happening now, even though it tears me apart.

Thank you for the laughter that lit me up, for the revelations that made me feel seen on a soul level, for showing me parts of myself I didn't know existed. I hope you find the peace and the awakening you were searching for. I hope the illness doesn't take more from you than it already has. And I hope one day I can look back at those numbers—1 and 9, 333 and 999—and feel something softer than this grief.With all the love I poured into us (and maybe still carry, in the quiet places)

P.S. If anyone reading this on Reddit wonders who this is for—it's for him. The one who called me his light, his catalyst, the one who wrote about how I saved him when he was lost in the dark, drifting toward streets or worse, how I picked up his broken pieces and brought them back. The one who said I reignited his spark, grounded him through every storm, showed him rebirth when he felt dead inside the past year. The one who fought through jealousy, lies from others, wars in both our minds, just to make me his. The one who said even when mad, even facing away, he still had my back—no money or treasure could match that. The one who thanked me for finding him, for loving him unconditionally even when he wasn't perfect, tough, or good at the soft things like kisses or cuddles. The one who saw angel numbers like 111 (doubt turning to blessing), 333 (protection, divine alignment), 999 (letting go of old wounds so our love could last and soar). The one who ended his words with that raw, corny line about wanting to see my pretty face next to his dick, because even in the poetry, he was still him—real, unfiltered, all in. This is my anonymous way of saying it all back, of processing the love that was everything and the pain that broke me. If you're out there reading this, ez.. you know who you are. I love you forever and always.