You lied. You fucking lied to my face. All those months we spent talking, building a connection, sharing our lives, it was all a facade. Behind my back, you were entangled with another girl, weaving a web of deceit and betrayal. Each time you claimed to be busy, each time you said you couldn't make time for me, it was all a lie. And now, here I am, shattered and broken, while you bask in the happiness you found with someone else.

I trusted you. I believed every word you said, hanging on to the hope that we had something real. But it was all smoke and mirrors, a cruel game played at my expense. How could you do this to me? How could you watch me invest my heart and soul into something that was never genuine?

The pain is overwhelming. It consumes me, gnawing at my core, leaving me gasping for air. I try to make sense of it all, to understand why you would inflict such anguish upon me. But there are no answers that can quell the storm raging within my heart.

I am left here, struggling to recover from the wreckage of our shattered connection. I am left with the bitter taste of betrayal, the bitter realization that I was nothing more than a disposable placeholder in your life. The nights are filled with tears and sleepless agony, as I wonder what I did wrong, how I failed to see through your lies.

You know, being a writer can be a rollercoaster of emotions. One moment, you're anxious about writing, the next, you're anxious about not writing. It's like a never-ending tug-of-war with your own thoughts.

And let's not forget the anticipation of people reading your stories. It's a mix of excitement and fear. Will they love it? Hate it? Will they even bother to read it? The uncertainty can drive you up the wall.

But then again, there's also the anxiety of people not reading your stories. It's like pouring your heart onto the page only for it to go unnoticed. It can be disheartening, to say the least.

And editing? Oh boy, that's a whole new level of anxiety. You're torn between wanting to perfect your work and being afraid of ruining it. It's a delicate dance of self-doubt and meticulous scrutiny.

But here's the catch: even when you're bursting with ideas, anxiety sneaks in. Having too many ideas can be overwhelming. You're drowning in a sea of possibilities, unsure of which one to pursue. It's like having a thousand puzzle pieces without a clue where to start.

Then there's the agony of not having any good ideas at all. The blank page stares back at you, mocking your creative drought. The fear of running out of inspiration gnaws at your soul.

And time, oh precious time. Not having enough of it is a constant struggle. You yearn for more moments to dedicate to your craft, to dive into your imagination. But ironically, having too much time can be equally daunting. The vast expanse stretches before you, and suddenly, the pressure to produce something remarkable becomes overwhelming.

So, you see, being a writer is a delicate balancing act. Anxious about writing, anxious about not writing. Anxious about readers, anxious about being ignored. Anxious about editing, anxious about ideas. Anxious about time, anxious about too much time. It's a wild ride, but one we willingly embrace, hoping that our words will resonate with someone out there.