When Did Caring Become A Sin

I hate this quiet cruelty dressed up as cool, this careless act they think's a rule, this “nonchalant” mask they proudly wear— like breaking a heart is a casual dare. Tell me— how does it feel to wound and repeat, to step on someone and call it “elite”? How does a person wake up and decide that hurting someone is something to hide behind laughter, behind pride, behind lies— and still meet their own eyes? You said you loved me— and maybe you did, in moments, in parts, in glances that felt like unfinished starts. But then your friends came, and just like that, you shifted, you changed, you erased where I sat. I stood there watching you rewrite your tone, like I was a secret you’d never own. And I’m tired— not just once, not twice, not four, not five, but every time I let hope survive, it meets the same ending, the same cold game, different faces, but always the same. And girls too— don’t think I don’t see the way you retreat, how you pull away just to feel complete, how you vanish, then circle back, with “I love you” stitched in a crack. “I didn’t want to seem too attached,” you say, like care is something mismatched, like reaching out first is a loss of pride, like feelings are things you’re meant to hide. Explain it to me— what kind of love is afraid to show? What kind of truth refuses to grow? What kind of heart plays hide and seek, then calls itself strong for being weak? Because I know— I could never treat someone that way, never turn warmth into something grey, never love just the idea, the frame, and leave the person to carry the blame. You don’t love me. You love the version you made in your mind, easy to leave, convenient, confined. And maybe that’s why I say I won’t stay, won’t build a life that can shift in a day, won’t promise forever to something so thin, when people change like the air they breathe in. Because it’s not just one— it’s a pattern, a cycle, a constant refrain, a quiet, repeating, exhausting pain. They ask first, they pull you near, then disappear when it starts to feel real, like closeness is something they have to escape, like kindness is something they shouldn’t shape. And it’s ugly. Not “cool,” not “chill,” not distant or sleek— just plain, simple, deliberate mean. And I’m left here asking, again and again, when did caring become a sin? When did love turn into a game where the winner is the one who feels the least pain? Because if that’s the rule— then I don’t want to play.