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ink mix set I purchased and wrote, “Had the guys over for poker tonight. They asked about you. They also drank drinks from this set. Thank you. Hope you’re doing well.”</p><p id="150c">What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Did he tell his friends about the breakup? He’s undoubtedly drunk after a night of poker and mixed drinks.</p><p id="d7b4">Here is the rest of the thread, verbatim from my phone.</p><p id="1316">I reply, “What did they ask, and more importantly, what drinks did you make?” I need to keep it light and fun while probing.</p><p id="1ca5">“Well, John (the bearded guy that was in love with you) asked if you were coming over. I explained that you were better than me and hence probably not coming over,” Jeremy replies. What does <i>better than me</i> even mean?</p><p id="f407">He continues. “He was sad so then he decided that he would make some God-awful drink from what I had in my poor man’s bar, basically like a suicide when you went to 7–11 as a kid. He left drunk and double sad (he also lost a lot of money to me).”</p><p id="6e88">I want to scream, “Why are you texting me? What do you really want? Are you fucking other women yet? How many dates have you been on? Am I better than all of them?”</p><p id="1559">Instead, I reply “Better than you at what, poker? I don’t recall anyone being in love with me but I think everyone loved that I kept tossing them <i>your</i> chips and telling them to buy themselves something nice. If any of them had a new shirt, you probably funded it. You’re welcome, John!”</p><p id="f1a7">Keep it fun. Keep it light. Keep it funny. My brain is reeling.</p><p id="707b">“Oh my God. You don’t remember him asking you to leave with him?” Jeremy texts back.</p><p id="2f22">I legitimately don’t remember that. I reply, “Lol, I’m 100% certain that no one asked me to go anywhere. You sure he wasn’t asking you? You are very pretty after all…”</p><p id="be32">Jeremy shoots back, “Lol. Nope, he was 100% in love.” I respond with a matching one-liner, saying “I feel like that’s a violation of some Bro Code…”</p><p id="1ddb">“Well maybe? But I think he also knew a) I was pretty secure in myself and b) you were way out of his league…so everyone would know it was a joke. I think under those circumstances it’s moderately okay? But I’m not fully up on these things so maybe I’m wrong?” He pauses, then adds “How is your bruised arm?”</p><p id="5156">My arm was mangled the week before when I went for STD testing. I bruise easily and it looked like someone spilled purple paint on my elbow.</p><p id="2e8a">I don’t know what to write but I want to see where this conversation is going. “While I don’t remember anyone soliciting me to go back to their place, I did have fun on your poker nights but that’s probably because nothing is more entertaining than a bunch of crazy drunk men trying to smack talk each other but barely able to string a full sentence. I should have recorded them for you.”</p><p id="1d7b">My text continues. “I would have hoped that c) would be ‘Jennifer isn’t a dick who would have taken anyone up on their offer’! I was probably too busy writing your eulogy from your upcoming Shrimp Death to notice.”</p><p id="44dd">Jeremy corrects himself. “*B) secure in myself and our relationship. Sorry about your arm. Guessing by now you got work that there was nothing to worry about so the bruise is double annoying? What is Shrimp Death?”</p><p id="b5dc">My replies are wordier than they should be. “Whatever that leftover seafood was that everyone told you to toss while you eagerly used a thousand Ziploc bags to store in the fridge like someone tossing caution to the wind with their intestinal track.” I address the arm by adding, “Yes, the last of the results came in on Monday. You’d think for $135 that shit would be expedited.”</p><p id="c1ed">The conversation is going nowhere. Why are we still messaging?</p><p id="c894">Jeremy replies, “Oh shit, the shrimp. I ate those shrimp for like 5 days. I made a shrimp boil! All good. No stomach issues. Congrats on the results. Question: Were you worried about being pregnant in April of last year? (Pic you sent before.) or does your doc do that when you walk in the door?”</p><p id="9d22">He’s referring to the screenshot I sent him from the first No Contact breaking whic

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h was a historical view of my Planned Parenthood STD testing results.</p><p id="8088">I quip, “They make you do it. It’s part of the Premium Luxury Planned Parenthood All-in-One experience.”</p><p id="cb4e">“Lol. Platinum status, huh?”</p><p id="b532">I want to scream at him to tell me what’s on his mind. Instead, I reply “Yeah, there’s a punch card. One more Planned Parenthood Platinum stamp and I get a $5 Starbucks gift card.”</p><p id="5268">I get the iPhone notification that Jeremy laughed at my comment (<i>on an Android, it doesn’t display the emoji</i>). “Nice. How are you doing? Punchcard is too funny btw.”</p><p id="7f71">And here we are.</p><p id="7898">The How-Are-You-Doing message. The fishing from a seemingly innocent text after a breakup. I need to proceed with caution. I don’t want him to know I’m wallowing. But I don’t want him to think my life is perfect without him.</p><p id="3916">I cautiously replied, “I’m doing good. I had that big presentation today and despite a ginormous tech issue an hour beforehand, the director wrote me after and said I aced it. I assume you’re doing well too.”</p><p id="65fe">I don’t want him to be well. I want him to tell me he’s unable to live without me.</p><p id="e1e5">That’s not what Jeremy replies. “That’s awesome! Nothing surprises me about you kicking ass on a presentation (and managing last-minute tech drama).”</p><p id="747b">He continues. “I’m doing well. Glad you are too. I’m turning into a sleepy pumpkin so I’m gonna bid you good night: good night.”</p><p id="4b26">I don’t respond.</p><p id="4a85">I’m back to Day 1 of No Contact. My brain keeps replaying Jeremy’s last text. <i>I’m doing well. Glad you are too</i>. Is he doing well? Then why is he messaging me? Is he genuinely glad that I’m doing well?</p><p id="584a">This has to be it for No Contact. It has to. I can’t block his number because I’m too high anxiety and will forever wonder if he’s messaging me. I’d rather know because I’ll go insane fabricating my version of the truth.</p><p id="5a15">Unlike last time, I’m not a sobbing mess on the floor. I’m stoked his friends asked about me and that I came up in conversation. My feeling of smugness is better than my prior feelings of misery.</p><p id="330c">My heart whispers painful thoughts, like how I’ll never feel his arms around me ever again. My brain plays boss and replies, “They wanted to walk away?<b> Let them</b>.”</p><p id="0074">Back to No Contact. Again.</p><div id="b235" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/what-i-learned-about-men-as-a-fetish-star-d6e9c842a458"> <div> <div> <h2>What I Learned About Men as a Fetish Star</h2> <div><h3>What a porn site taught me about men</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*hymd9rsuEo1cPqiqoZhK6Q.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="7634" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/for-men-blowjob-etiquette-fe3e6bc66ba2"> <div> <div> <h2>For Men: Blowjob Etiquette</h2> <div><h3>Advice for a man to receive head like a gentleman, not a dick</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*mPRf9eDt0U0a4vmj)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="d4ac" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/im-a-40-something-female-terrified-of-my-expiration-date-2e991962dc0b"> <div> <div> <h2>I’m a 40-Something Female Terrified of My Expiration Date</h2> <div><h3>It’s getting harder to stop from becoming invisible.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*1Ty_0UZ82HFjuc9m)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

When Your Ex Breaks No Contact

Back to Day 1. Again.

Seriously.

Seriously.

It’s been a month since the start of my emotional breakup with a guy I fell in love with after my divorce. After a brief flip out on Jeremy for his behavior (he talked about merging families while also telling me wanted to date other people), I walked away from it with my head held high.

Well, he thought my head was held high. In reality, my head is on the floor because it’s attached to my body, which is also on the floor. Crying. Sobbing. Wailing.

I jumped into No Contact. It’s the only trump card I have. I’m the girl who responded within seconds of a text and triple-texted him before he’d respond. Getting radio silence from me is eerily creepy.

Within a week, Jeremy contacted me. It was the usual sooo-how-are-you-doing checkup that exes do when they want a pulse check. I held my ground and made my boundaries clear. I also told him that the ball is in his court but I’m not waiting around. That’s the gamble he’s taking.

Back to No Contact. I told myself that if I could go a solid week without contact, I’d be fine.

My survival kit is endless videos from TikTok about breakups, No Contact, and walking away when you love them. My new mantra is Let Them. It’s from a famous speech in one of Tyler Perry’s Madea movies.

If somebody want to walk out of your life, let them go.

Especially if you know that you done everything you can do. You done sat around and been the best man or the best woman you can be and they still want to go, let them go.

Whatever they’re running after, they’ll see what they had in a minute, but by then it’s gonna be too late. ‘Cuz you’ll sit there and you’ll go… Because half of these people, you be sitting around crying about it, worrying about it and then two or three years from now you ain’t even gonna remember their last name. How many times you done see folks somewhere and you be like ‘What the hell was I thinking? I done been there, I was like what was wrong with me? What was I going through? I must have been lonely as hell to hook up with you’. Let folks go, Sonny.

Jeremy wanted to throw a bomb on our relationship. He did this. And I’m not going to fight it. I’m going to let him. Does he think he can be happier? Great. I’ll let him. Does he want to walk away from me? I’ll let him.

I’m hours away from the one-week mark of our last interaction and I doom scroll through TikTok as I white-knuckle my will to not cry. I’ll manifest happiness if it kills me. Video after video plays about letting an ex walk away or the power of No Contact. It takes me down an astrology path (something about a Saturn lunar thing and being a Leo is a big deal).

The same themes replay. Let go of the past and the thinking that it could have gone any other way. Letting go of the past is terrifying but it’s the only way to heal. I repeat a few manifestations out loud, telling myself that I’m a motherfucking gem with great things ahead.

My phone buzzes.

It’s Jeremy.

Are you fucking kidding me? The moment I finally feel zen about the breakup is the moment he texts me. He attaches a picture of a drink mix set I purchased and wrote, “Had the guys over for poker tonight. They asked about you. They also drank drinks from this set. Thank you. Hope you’re doing well.”

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Did he tell his friends about the breakup? He’s undoubtedly drunk after a night of poker and mixed drinks.

Here is the rest of the thread, verbatim from my phone.

I reply, “What did they ask, and more importantly, what drinks did you make?” I need to keep it light and fun while probing.

“Well, John (the bearded guy that was in love with you) asked if you were coming over. I explained that you were better than me and hence probably not coming over,” Jeremy replies. What does better than me even mean?

He continues. “He was sad so then he decided that he would make some God-awful drink from what I had in my poor man’s bar, basically like a suicide when you went to 7–11 as a kid. He left drunk and double sad (he also lost a lot of money to me).”

I want to scream, “Why are you texting me? What do you really want? Are you fucking other women yet? How many dates have you been on? Am I better than all of them?”

Instead, I reply “Better than you at what, poker? I don’t recall anyone being in love with me but I think everyone loved that I kept tossing them your chips and telling them to buy themselves something nice. If any of them had a new shirt, you probably funded it. You’re welcome, John!”

Keep it fun. Keep it light. Keep it funny. My brain is reeling.

“Oh my God. You don’t remember him asking you to leave with him?” Jeremy texts back.

I legitimately don’t remember that. I reply, “Lol, I’m 100% certain that no one asked me to go anywhere. You sure he wasn’t asking you? You are very pretty after all…”

Jeremy shoots back, “Lol. Nope, he was 100% in love.” I respond with a matching one-liner, saying “I feel like that’s a violation of some Bro Code…”

“Well maybe? But I think he also knew a) I was pretty secure in myself and b) you were way out of his league…so everyone would know it was a joke. I think under those circumstances it’s moderately okay? But I’m not fully up on these things so maybe I’m wrong?” He pauses, then adds “How is your bruised arm?”

My arm was mangled the week before when I went for STD testing. I bruise easily and it looked like someone spilled purple paint on my elbow.

I don’t know what to write but I want to see where this conversation is going. “While I don’t remember anyone soliciting me to go back to their place, I did have fun on your poker nights but that’s probably because nothing is more entertaining than a bunch of crazy drunk men trying to smack talk each other but barely able to string a full sentence. I should have recorded them for you.”

My text continues. “I would have hoped that c) would be ‘Jennifer isn’t a dick who would have taken anyone up on their offer’! I was probably too busy writing your eulogy from your upcoming Shrimp Death to notice.”

Jeremy corrects himself. “*B) secure in myself and our relationship. Sorry about your arm. Guessing by now you got work that there was nothing to worry about so the bruise is double annoying? What is Shrimp Death?”

My replies are wordier than they should be. “Whatever that leftover seafood was that everyone told you to toss while you eagerly used a thousand Ziploc bags to store in the fridge like someone tossing caution to the wind with their intestinal track.” I address the arm by adding, “Yes, the last of the results came in on Monday. You’d think for $135 that shit would be expedited.”

The conversation is going nowhere. Why are we still messaging?

Jeremy replies, “Oh shit, the shrimp. I ate those shrimp for like 5 days. I made a shrimp boil! All good. No stomach issues. Congrats on the results. Question: Were you worried about being pregnant in April of last year? (Pic you sent before.) or does your doc do that when you walk in the door?”

He’s referring to the screenshot I sent him from the first No Contact breaking which was a historical view of my Planned Parenthood STD testing results.

I quip, “They make you do it. It’s part of the Premium Luxury Planned Parenthood All-in-One experience.”

“Lol. Platinum status, huh?”

I want to scream at him to tell me what’s on his mind. Instead, I reply “Yeah, there’s a punch card. One more Planned Parenthood Platinum stamp and I get a $5 Starbucks gift card.”

I get the iPhone notification that Jeremy laughed at my comment (on an Android, it doesn’t display the emoji). “Nice. How are you doing? Punchcard is too funny btw.”

And here we are.

The How-Are-You-Doing message. The fishing from a seemingly innocent text after a breakup. I need to proceed with caution. I don’t want him to know I’m wallowing. But I don’t want him to think my life is perfect without him.

I cautiously replied, “I’m doing good. I had that big presentation today and despite a ginormous tech issue an hour beforehand, the director wrote me after and said I aced it. I assume you’re doing well too.”

I don’t want him to be well. I want him to tell me he’s unable to live without me.

That’s not what Jeremy replies. “That’s awesome! Nothing surprises me about you kicking ass on a presentation (and managing last-minute tech drama).”

He continues. “I’m doing well. Glad you are too. I’m turning into a sleepy pumpkin so I’m gonna bid you good night: good night.”

I don’t respond.

I’m back to Day 1 of No Contact. My brain keeps replaying Jeremy’s last text. I’m doing well. Glad you are too. Is he doing well? Then why is he messaging me? Is he genuinely glad that I’m doing well?

This has to be it for No Contact. It has to. I can’t block his number because I’m too high anxiety and will forever wonder if he’s messaging me. I’d rather know because I’ll go insane fabricating my version of the truth.

Unlike last time, I’m not a sobbing mess on the floor. I’m stoked his friends asked about me and that I came up in conversation. My feeling of smugness is better than my prior feelings of misery.

My heart whispers painful thoughts, like how I’ll never feel his arms around me ever again. My brain plays boss and replies, “They wanted to walk away? Let them.”