Hahh… I got dumped. Again.
Honestly, at this point, I feel like the universe has me on a romantic trial subscription that keeps getting canceled the moment I get emotionally attached.
If I ever see him again—yes, him—I swear on every tear I've wasted watching tragic anime deaths that I will bite him. Not metaphorically. Not in a flirty, "oops, I'm so quirky" way. I mean a full-on rabid raccoon chomp, with foaming-at-the-mouth vengeance. I will bite him with such spite that his ancestors feel it in their ghostly tailbones.
But let me back up before my rage buzz reaches supersonic levels.
My name is Arno Chakma. Twenty-six. Single. Emotionally exhausted. Spiritually unemployed. And physically powered by Wi-Fi, instant noodles, and leftover dreams. I graduated in 2023 thinking I'd conquer the world. I imagined myself sipping overpriced coffee in a sunlit café while typing my best-selling novel on a rose gold laptop.
Instead, I've been quarantined in my room for what feels like seven seasons of suffering, living like a legendary cave goblin. My hair lives in a permanent messy bun that's more "haunted nest" than aesthetic. My wardrobe is 80% pajamas and 20% questionable decisions. My daily schedule involves crying over fictional characters, yelling at flies like a Shakespearean villain, and binge-watching adapted manhwa like it's an Olympic sport.
And yet, even in this dumpster fire of a lifestyle, I found love.
Or so I thought.
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Love, Lies and Wi-Fi
Let me introduce you to the villain of our tale: Adolf.
Yes. That's his actual name. I know. Red flag right there. A name that screams "run, girl," but did I listen? No. Because when you're lonely, broke, and emotionally malnourished, even a guy named Adolf who says "lol" after every sentence seems like a snack.
We met online. The sacred, cursed realm of dating apps. A place where desperate people pretend to be emotionally available while uploading selfies with captions like "Not looking for anything serious (but please love me)."
He messaged me first. Something witty. I replied with sarcasm, like the emotionally defensive cinnamon roll I am. And boom—we were soulmates. At least digital ones.
We texted daily. We voice-called. We video-chatted. I even wore eyeliner once, which is basically a marriage proposal from an introvert. He called me his "moonlight." I called him my "idiot." It was sweet. It was cheesy. It was all I had.
I even told my parents.
My dad, who had long accepted my fate as a romantic recluse, gave me a thumbs up like I'd just won a gold medal in "Finally Talking to Someone Real." My mom asked for his blood group, date of birth, and whether he believed in reincarnation. You know, normal parent stuff.
And then—tragedy.
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The Betrayal Scroll
One fateful Thursday afternoon, while scrolling through the pits of digital despair known as Instagram, aka "People Who Are Living a Better Life Than You Dot Com", I saw it.
A photo.
Of him.
My Adolf.
With a girl.
Not just any girl. A shiny, collagen-filled 19-year-old girl with cheeks so plump they could bounce a basketball. The kind of girl who drinks detox water and believes Mercury retrograde is a personality trait.
The caption? "With my baby boo! #blessed #foreverus #ageisjustanumber"
Excuse me while I throw myself off a metaphorical emotional cliff.
I stared at the screen. Blinked once. Twice. Zoomed in. I prayed for Photoshop. Prayed for deepfakes. Prayed for optical illusion.
But there it was. That smirk. That mole on his chin. That SAME stupid shirt I told him looked like a grandma's curtain having a midlife crisis.
It was him.
It was real.
I was the side character.
I had just been romantically Thanos-snapped.
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Emotional Meltdown: Level 999
My brain shut down. My soul did a backflip. I yelled something unintelligible and threw my phone onto the bed like it was contaminated with betrayal.
I opened our old texts. Regretted it. Closed them. Reopened them. Cursed them. Took one last screenshot. Deleted them. Cried. Re-downloaded them from backup.
And in that glorious moment of heartbreak, rage, and hormonal imbalance, I whispered the dumbest, most iconic line I've ever said:
"If only I could become an Adis mosquito and bite him with the dengue virus."
Yes. That was the wish. Not "I want to be rich," or "I wish I had clearer skin."
Nope.
I wanted to be a mosquito. A mosquito with spite. A mosquito with vengeance. A dengue delivery agent of doom.
And the universe, in its twisted sense of humor, said:
"Bet."
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The Fairy of Fumbled Wishes
High above my miserable little room, somewhere in the drunk corners of the cosmos, a fairy heard me.
Now don't imagine a cute, Disney-style fairy with sparkly wings and an elegant wand.
No.
This fairy looked like she'd crawled out of a glitter explosion at a party she wasn't invited to. She wore sparkly crocs, a sequined tutu over jeans, and her wand was—no joke—a glittery chopstick from a sushi set.
She was tipsy. She was flying in zigzags. She had bubble wrap wings that popped when she flapped too hard.
Floating above my window like a confused hummingbird, she squinted at me and said:
"Huh. Someone wants to be an Adis mosquito? Bold. Unhinged. I like it."
She twirled, dramatically snapped her fingers, and accidentally set off a nearby moth into a panic spiral.
Then she pointed her chopstick at me and declared:
"You've got 24 hours, sugar. Go buzz your heartbreak into justice. After that, poof! Back to sad girl mode. Happy biting!"
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Buzzkill Incoming
I blinked.
Reality shattered like my dignity.
My arms shrank. My legs folded into my chest. My body twisted like a badly written plot twist. My nose grew into a poking straw of doom.
And suddenly—I was small. I was winged. I was ready.
I was an Adis aegypti mosquito. The elite. The sneaky. The slapper of peaceful nights. The slayer of romantic illusions.
I buzzed once. It sounded like heartbreak, rage, and the high-pitched scream of justice.
My vision changed. I could see in heat signatures. I could smell regret. I could taste betrayal in the air like a five-star buffet.
"Go get him, dengue queen," the fairy whispered, vanishing in a puff of glitter and questionable life choices.
So here I am.
Tiny. Angry. Itchy with rage.
Flying into the night sky, armed with a venomous spirit and a microscopic straw of karma.
Adolf. You lying, collagen-chasing, betrayal-wrapped-in-a-smirk disgrace.
Sleep well, baby boo.
Because tonight?
I. Bite. Back.
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