I Owe Karma - by Zarah Writes

I don’t think I owe karma. I know I do. Sometimes I go through hell in my relationship and still can’t leave because I love him more than I love myself. And sometimes, in the middle of all that pain, I wonder if this is simply life collecting its debt. Not revenge. A debt. Because I know what I’ve done to people. In my prime, I played with hearts like they were disposable things. I made people fall for me, watched them bleed feelings all over my hands, and walked away without even looking back. I didn’t care. But there are two people I still carry the weight of. The first was a guy I dated for a week. Just seven days. And somehow, those seven days were the happiest he’d ever been. He was naturally cheerful, but that week, he looked almost unreal. Like someone had finally handed him a piece of heaven and told him it belonged to him. He told anyone who would listen that he was in love with me. Then, on a random Tuesday, I killed it. Not literally. Sometimes I think that makes it worse. A friend told me he was too poor for me, and I listened. No hesitation. No second thought. I ended everything like seven days meant nothing. The next day at school, something about him was different. Everyone noticed. He was the kind of person who never looked sad, but that day, sadness had settled into his face like a bruise. And the day after that was the last time anyone saw him. Including me. When I finally became old enough to understand what I had done, I searched for him. I really did. At some point, I forgot his surname. Years later, it came back to me in a dream, and I started searching again. Nothing. He disappeared so completely that sometimes I wonder if I imagined him. I hope he’s alive. I hope he forgot me. I hope someone loved him properly after I taught him that love could disappear overnight. The second person was a woman. We met and connected almost immediately. I knew what she wanted, so I gave it to her. Everything no one had ever done for her, I tried to do. Food at random hours. Money when she needed it. Listening to problems I couldn’t solve. Trying to fix wounds I didn’t create. I even showed up at her workplace with flowers and asked her out properly. She was head over heels. And somehow, that story was dead before it even had the chance to breathe. I prioritized her. Then one day, I needed her. Just once. I needed someone to listen. She disappeared. Gone. And I did what I’ve always done when something hurts too much. I left. I was supposed to stay and talk. I was supposed to be patient. Instead, I walked away with my pride in one hand and my hurt in the other. She thought I overreacted. Maybe I did. But knowing I was hurt doesn’t make the memory disappear. And now you say sorry and expect me to forget? How? You can’t cut someone open and then whisper “sorry” over the wound like the blood will politely crawl back inside. You don’t get to break something and expect one word to put all the pieces back where they were. Nah. I remember. I remember everything. And still, some part of me wonders if I was wrong to leave. Because if I truly loved her, maybe I should have stayed. Maybe I should have swallowed my pride and had the conversation. Maybe loving someone means staying long enough to be uncomfortable. We caught feelings too quickly. I rushed everything. And somewhere between trying to love her and trying to protect myself, I became another person who left a scar. She deserves an apology. So does he. Maybe this is mine. Not punishment. Not revenge. Just the quiet horror of remembering every person I hurt once I finally became capable of understanding the damage. I don’t know if they’ll ever forgive me. I don’t know if they even remember me. But I remember them. And maybe that’s my karma. Not watching them suffer. Not seeing them come back. Just carrying the names of people I once broke around inside me like pieces of glass. I hope they forgive me. I hope they found peace. And selfishly, I hope one day I find mine too. Because I’m tired of carrying the remains of people I loved badly.

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