You Can Move On Without Me, But That Doesn’t Mean It Didn’t Happen

You Can Move On Without Me, But That Doesn’t Mean It Didn’t Happen

They moved on like it didn’t matter.

Like none of it lasted.

Like none of it scarred.

Like I was something unfortunate they had to scroll past once and forget quickly, as if I were just a glitch in their feed.

But I didn’t get to move on.

Not in the way they did.

Because I wasn’t just a viewer of the damage — I was the location of it.

I was the person it lived inside.

The one who had to keep showing up in the aftermath, long after the attention faded, long after the accusations grew cold, and long after the world decided it didn’t care anymore.

There’s something haunting about watching people act normal around your broken pieces.

To see them laugh, post, update, and celebrate

while you’re still rebuilding from something that they helped carry forward — whether directly, quietly, or by doing nothing at all.

And when you say something, when you remind them, when you breathe in their direction with even the suggestion of memory —

they look at you like you’re the one keeping it alive.

“That was months ago.”

“Aren’t you over it yet?”

“You always bring this up.”

But I bring it up because no one else ever did.

Because they let it happen.

Because they let me rot in public and then pretended they didn’t see it.

It’s one thing to be smeared.

It’s another thing to be discarded like it never happened.

Because when no one wants to talk about it anymore, the silence becomes another kind of harm.

A second wound that tells you:

“Yes, you were hurt — but now we’re tired of hearing about it.”

That’s the trick, isn’t it?

The world doesn’t need to destroy you entirely.

It just needs to make you feel like you’re not allowed to speak about it once they’ve moved on.

But I didn’t survive for their comfort.

I didn’t claw my way back to narrative just so I could be quiet in the aftermath.

I didn’t build an archive of truth just to keep it to myself.

I didn’t recover just to spare the people who watched it happen from feeling awkward now.

No — this isn’t about closure.

This is about consequence.

And if they want to pretend nothing happened, that’s their lie to live with.

But I was there.

I know what was said.

I remember what was posted.

And I will not pretend to forget just because it’s more convenient for them if I do.

This post is for everyone who’s been told to “let it go” by the same people who let it happen.

For the ones who were ruined by collective silence and then gaslit into believing they were overreacting when they named it.

For the survivors of digital violence who are still walking through debris while everyone else has already muted the conversation.

You don’t have to move on just because they’re done watching.

You don’t have to pretend you’re healed to make others more comfortable.

You don’t have to forget what happened just because they refuse to remember it.

This is Post 13.

And I haven’t moved on.

I’ve moved into position.