Death by a million stabs 


In this age of technology, lost love is a death by a million stabs.

Be the passport size photograph tucked away in an old wallet away from the eyes of my spouse.

Be the password that only I type and find eight seconds of solace. Be the rotting love letters.

Be the gifts that are buried under my bed.Be the places I carefully avoid lest it stirs up memory of your cologne.

Be that memory that pops up and then fades away at the snap of my fingers.

Don’t be the newsfeed. Those checkins to places we had once sat and built our dreams in. Don’t be the Whatsapp image. The filtered reality on Instagram. 

Those tweets that are almost just as long as our conversations at the end of our relationship. Really short.

Don’t be the Facebook upload. A constant reminder that you’re living the life we were supposed to. Without me.

Don’t follow me with your life in filtered hues that almost make your life look good without me in it. 

Don’t follow me with your fake hashtags because one day even I JUST might believe that you are really happy. 

Don’t pop up on me. Literally. Every time I choose to forget. Or rather every time I try to forget.

Just as I convince myself that tomorrow is a new day, it feels like you just jumped at the back of my chair to remind me that you’re better off without me. 

For breakup always feels like death. But in this age of technology, a breakup is death by a million stabs.

Published by Nandhitha Hariharan

Fiercely feminist and Hopelessly romantic - I oscillate between writing about the world around me and articulating what is going in my head.

2 thoughts on “Death by a million stabs 

  1. Painfully beautiful.

    “Every time I chose to forget. Or rather every time I try to forget.”


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