It’s been eight months since my unexpected breakup. And I’m totally fine. I’M FINE. OK. Stop sending me Mel Robbins clips. Let me process in my own unhinged way.
My coping method? Cue Gracie Abrams, a new haircut, two new vibrators (one was tragically disappointing—let’s call it a tribute to the past), and throwing myself into enough hobbies to distract myself from my own thoughts.
I’ve had months of pretending I’m normal after losing someone who was in my daily routine. The closure I thought I needed never came the way I imagined—but it did show up, in its own bizarre, backhanded ways.
The breakup itself? A random Thursday. Because of course it was. I was fresh out of the shower, ready for Jersey Shore, and instead got ghosted all day, only for him to show up at my door, cry on my couch, and break up with me. I thought it was a joke. It wasn’t. Cue the dreaded “We need to talk.” I honestly don’t even remember his exact words anymore.
Naturally, I burst into tears (empath ), and threw out the birthday gift he gave me—a framed picture of himself. That was the only gift I got that year, besides the guilt-flowers he’d bring after every screw-up. (Again, empath.)
After about twenty minutes of silence, I told him to leave. I’d never had a breakup so abrupt, so hollow. My last relationship ended with mutual compassion. This was a blindside. Since that night, I haven’t seen or spoken to him. No explanations. No who, what, when, where, or why. But closure started to arrive, just not how I expected.
A month later, I walked out of a movie (Anora, which somehow helped me grieve) and saw his name pop up on my phone. I didn’t answer. I listened to his voicemail on repeat for weeks. He congratulated me on quitting my job—classic, he’d seen my LinkedIn and had to inject himself back in. I didn’t respond. TikTok taught me about no-contact, and I was sticking to it.
Two weeks later, another message: a vague “thankfulness and gratitude” text. As if he’d prompted ChatGPT: “Send polite breakup text to girl you wasted two years with.” If you previously texted me “u up?” you’re not suddenly a poet.
Two weeks after that, he asked to say goodbye before moving back in with his parents. Hard pass.
Weirdly, those three awkward attempts were a kind of closure. Not the love letter or final kiss I once hoped for, but a reminder: he needed me to validate him. To make him feel better about leaving. That’s not my job anymore—it never should’ve been.
Seven months in, his sister texted. She’s an innocent casualty, but responding would reopen a door I’ve fought hard to shut.
So, no, I didn’t get the closure I thought I deserved. But in a twisted way, I got exactly what I needed. I know he’ll move home, marry a sweet nurse, have a Costco membership. He’ll be content. But he’ll never be happy. And somehow…that’s closure enough.
