![]() I’d never even left so much as a pair of earrings behind at his place. At this point I no longer care, thankfully! But, it’s important to acknowledge that there were a lot of circumstances that made this total ice out easier for me. To this day I don’t know why my ex never reached out after we broke up. Now I can see how my own choice played a role. We weren’t trying to be friends I didn’t have to pretend I could handle that or wonder what it meant. He didn’t tag me in weird memes out of the blue or send me text updates about his pregnant sister-in-law. There was no digital limbo where our connection could continue to exist. Without any communication, there were no more questions. Learning to see the beauty of our cold-turkey breakup felt like coming out of a fog-the clarity was cold but bright. All those questions I asked myself late at night were finally put to rest with the hardest breakup pill to swallow: It wasn’t really about me. Our text history was inadvertently deleted when I lost and replaced my iPhone. The pity parties were replaced with rational consideration of the faults in our relationship while running along the East River. Soon enough, we had been broken up longer than we had been together. Eventually, the silence was the answer to all my questions. But still, the temptation was there, and I know stronger women than me have fallen prey to the torture of watching your ex move on via Instagram and Facebook. My pride kept me in check and prevented me from making embarrassing late-night phone calls and sending texts that I’d instantly regret if he didn’t reply. Was I that forgettable? Did he mean way more to me than I did to him? Why wasn’t I worth caring about anymore? What’s wrong with me? I cringe to think of how many sleepless hours I spent wondering why, exactly, my ex never got in touch with me after we broke up. The proof was in the highly filtered pudding: He had moved on. Even after I unfollowed him on Instagram, I would pull up his account (it’s public) and study all the photos of him with his new girlfriend(s). I wallowed in the memories of the good times (pretending not to see the red flags that often present themselves in hindsight) and threw massive pity parties for myself that involved lying in bed for hours binge watching his favorite show on Netflix. I looked through my phone at our text history, at the cheesy selfies of us kissing or riding his tandem bicycle through the streets of Philly. As the months went by, I did what sad, dumped people do.
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