For the longest time, I have preferred writing about other people.

Watching them. Listening to them. Trying to understand why they do what they do.

The empathic observer’s lens has almost always pointed outward. It’s safer that way. Other people’s contradictions are fascinating. Your own are… expensive.

Turning that lens on myself has always felt like volunteering for an emotional colonoscopy.

But I suppose comebacks require a certain amount of excavation.

A while ago, a YouTuber, whose name I genuinely cannot remember now, said something that buried this blog deeper than I’d like to admit. Funny, isn’t it? How complete strangers sometimes become landlords in your mind, collecting rent long after they’ve forgotten the property exists.

I stopped writing here.

Or perhaps more accurately, I stopped believing there was anyone waiting on the other side of the page.

Then there was my mentor.

Every so often, she’d ask me about my writing.

“How’s the blog?”

Not with disappointment.

Not with pressure.

Just quiet, persistent faith.

Her encouragement became the string tied to the last undecayed piece of flesh still protruding from the grave I’d buried this blog in.

So here I am.

Unearthing myself.

Covered in dirt.

Slightly decomposed.

And because it would be dishonest to return pretending I’ve acquired profound wisdom during my absence, I thought I’d begin with something much more useful.

My own foolishness.

Specifically…

The dark humour of rejection.

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I have discovered something about myself.

I am not delusional. (Maybe slightly)

I am… procedural.

I don’t deny reality. (Don’t I?)

I simply insist on exhausting every other possibility before acknowledging it.

Someone could look me in the eye and say,

“Chinwe, I don’t like you.”

And I’d be like,

“Yes… but what’s the context?”

The thing about rejection is that it doesn’t wound my self-esteem first.

It wounds my pattern recognition.

Because I know what interest looks like.

When I like people, I remember them.

I remember the TikTok they sent.

I remember the article they recommended.

I remember they had a presentation on Thursday, so I check in afterwards.

Apparently, I’ve been assuming everyone else’s brain operates like a Labrador retriever with a calendar.

It doesn’t.

Yesterday I accused him of merely tolerating me.

This wasn’t courage.

This was fishing.

I cast my line into the emotional ocean hoping to catch reassurance.

Instead…

I caught a face-slap emoji.

Do you know how disrespectful emojis are?

Entire relationships have collapsed into Unicode.

Today I decided I was going to reclaim my dignity – an ambitious project.

I would disappear.

Become scarce.

Mysterious. Be unbothered. Emotionally unavailable.

Who am I fooling?

Me?

The woman who has never understood silent treatment?

Who treats malice like it’s an advanced elective she forgot to register for?

Thirty-seven minutes later I found a TikTok that reminded me of him.

It’s fascinating how quickly dignity packs its bags when comedy is involved.

Naturally…

I sent it.

Then, because my ancestors apparently survived too much for me to stop there, I added,

“If you get mind, don’t watch this one.”

He replied that he’d be watching his back.

Not the video.

His back.

At this point rejection isn’t even painful.

It’s performance feedback.

My favourite part, though, is my ego.

It doesn’t say,

“Everyone should like you.”

No.

It says,

“This outcome seems statistically… untidy.”

“How?”

“Dare?”

“You?”

Like rejection has made an administrative error.

As though somewhere in heaven an angel accidentally ticked the wrong box.

Excuse me.

I believe there has been a mix-up.

I was under the impression that I was charming.

The real comedy is that I have absolutely no behavioural template for this.

If someone dislikes me, chances are I’d already been disliking them.

Hello, I’m way ahead of you.

Clean.

Efficient.

Almost elegant.

But apparently my software crashes when I am the one who wishes to stay.

It’s a bug.

Version 33.0.

Known issue.

No patch available.

The more I think about it, the funnier it becomes.

Not because rejection is funny.

But because the human mind is.

Mine, especially.

Presented with overwhelming evidence, my brain assembled an entire appeals committee.

Perhaps he’s busy.

Perhaps he forgot.

Perhaps Mercury is in retrograde. Perhaps the earth is flat. Galileo was delusional after all.

Perhaps the MTN in his neighbourhood only supports emotionally available people.

Perhaps his roof fell on him and he’s fighting for his life.

Anything.

Anything except the verdict already entered into evidence.

And here’s the final punchline.

I’m probably going to publish this.

He’ll probably never read it.

Which means this entire essay is less a love letter than an archaeological record.

Future generations may excavate it and conclude,

“Here lies a woman who possessed remarkable emotional intelligence and absolutely no survival instincts.”

Honestly…

They’re not wrong.