Sorry If I’m Annoying. See the Comments for More Pics… Full Story👇👇👇
I say “sorry” too much. Sorry for texting first. Sorry for posting too many pictures. Sorry for being excited, for being loud, for being soft. Sorry if I’m annoying. It’s my reflex—like flinching before the blow, even when no one’s swinging.
But this time, I’m not apologizing for the story. I’m telling it.
👇👇👇 Full story below.
It starts with a photo. Me, standing in the golden spill of late afternoon light, wearing a dress I almost didn’t buy. You can see the hesitation in my shoulders, the hope in my eyes. I posted it with a caption that read, “Felt like sunlight. Might delete later.”
The comments lit up. Compliments, emojis, a few heart-eyed reactions. And then his.
“You look happy. That’s rare.”
I didn’t know how to respond. Was it a compliment? A warning? A mirror?
We’d been talking for weeks. Late-night voice notes, shared playlists, inside jokes that felt like secret handshakes. He called me “wildflower,” said I bloomed in places most people overlook. I believed him. I wanted to.
So when he asked to meet, I said yes. I wore the dress. I brought the camera. I wanted to remember.
The date was soft around the edges. We walked through a market, fingers grazing produce and pottery. He bought me a mango and peeled it with his hands, juice dripping down his wrist. I laughed. He said, “You laugh like you mean it.”
We took pictures. Him holding a clay cup. Me beside a wall of bougainvillea. He said he’d send them later. I said, “Don’t forget.”
He didn’t forget. But the next call changed everything.
It was the morning after. I was editing the photos, choosing which ones to post. I’d already drafted the caption: “Yesterday felt like a poem.” Then my phone rang.
His voice was different. Not cold, just distant. Like someone standing in a doorway, unsure whether to come in or walk away.
“I need to be honest,” he said. “I’m seeing someone else.”
I didn’t speak. I didn’t breathe.
“It’s not serious,” he added. “But I didn’t want to lie.”
I wanted to ask why he’d called me wildflower. Why he’d peeled the mango. Why he’d taken the photos. But I didn’t. I just said, “Thanks for telling me.”
He said, “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
I said, “You already did.”
We hung up. I stared at the photos. My smile looked borrowed. My eyes looked like they knew.
I posted one anyway. Captioned it: “Sorry if I’m annoying. See the comments for more pics.” It was a dare. A shield. A whisper that said, I’m still here.
The comments came. Friends saying I looked radiant. Strangers asking where the dress was from. And one from him: “You’re brave.”
I didn’t reply.
Because here’s the truth: I’m tired of shrinking. Of apologizing for taking up space. Of dimming my light so someone else doesn’t squint.
I’m not annoying. I’m alive.
I post pictures because they’re pieces of me. Petals I’ve shed. Moments I’ve claimed. I write captions like spells, hoping someone will read them and understand.
I’m not sorry for feeling deeply. For hoping wildly. For believing that a mango peeled with care might mean something.
I’m not sorry for the dress, or the laugh, or the way I looked at him like he was a sunrise.
I’m not sorry for the story.
Because the story is mine. And it’s beautiful, even with the bruise.
So scroll the comments. See the pics. One of me beside the bougainvillea. One of the mango, half-eaten. One of the clay cup, still warm.
They’re not just images. They’re evidence. That I showed up. That I felt something. That I dared to bloom.
And if that’s annoying—then let me be a garden of it.
