I Thought I Had Really Moved On
His WhatsApp was still saved on my phone. Instagram – already deleted. But occasionally, I’d still click it open, scroll through for a bit.I kept asking myself:Why was I keeping his WhatsApp?
Was it so that with every birthday, every Christmas, every New Year greeting, I could prove to myself – that he still thought of me?Perhaps, there was still a sliver of fantasy in my heart.A fantasy that he would come back to me.
Until one day, two years later, I was having brunch with friends in London. A good friend suddenly sent me a post – his LinkedIn update:His piano school was hiring new teachers.My friend meant to encourage me, wanted me to see: “Look, pursuing your dream is possible.” But the moment I saw it, my stomach felt like something had struck it hard. It was a pain I hadn’t felt in a long time. That kind of pain that came before every exam, every moment of nervousness and helplessness. In an instant, a wave of doubt surged through me. It was a feeling of unwillingness to accept.
When we were together, he was still struggling. The piano school had just started, few students, often worried about rent. And I had a stable job then, a decent income. I thought I was the “more successful” one.
He left me.
Now, his school is hiring teachers, his career is thriving. And me? I had just quit my job, didn’t know what to do next. The roles had reversed. And then, the unwillingness turned into guilt. Because I suddenly realized: He always knew what he wanted. He never compromised for society’s definitions – he wanted to do music, to teach piano, no matter how hard it was. And me? I had always lived in my parents’ expectations, couldn’t see myself clearly. What was even more terrifying was that I stood on some moral high ground, using my “success” to look down on him, to judge his choices.
The guilt was:
If only I had been more mature back then;
If only I had understood him better;
If only I had lived authentically.
The guilt eventually evolved into self-blame. That familiar voice appeared again –
“How could you do this?
How could you be so selfish?
How could you hurt someone who loved you so much?”
This voice – I knew it too well. Since childhood, whenever I didn’t meet expectations, it would appear. It’s just that before, it said:
“How could you do so poorly on the exam?”
“How could you disappoint me?”
And now, it had changed its target, but the tone remained the same. I sat in that brunch spot, unable to move. My friend was comforting me, but I couldn’t hear anything.I just stared at that LinkedIn post, the screen’s light reflecting on my coffee cup, making my heart race with anxiety. I tried to breathe deeply, following those methods I’d learned from psychology – identify emotions, name emotions, accept emotions.
But nothing worked.
My mind kept churning over and over:
Unwillingness.
Guilt.
Blame.
They were like waves, mixed together, with no boundaries and no outlet. I couldn’t even tell what I was thinking.
Five years, in an instant, collapsed into a pile of nameless fragments.
An intimate relationship is not just about love – it’s also a mirror.
It reflects you with nowhere to hide.
It shows your wounded heart.
It shows your shadow side.
It shows your hypocrisy.
It shows your insecurity.
It shows that real you – the one you don’t even want to face.
That day in London, that mirror appeared in front of me once again.
Later I returned to the Netherlands,and started preparing to become a tour guide in Tanzania. The first day I arrived in Dar es Salaam, it happened to be his birthday. I originally just wanted to send a simple “Happy Birthday,”
but I added one more line:“I quit my job and came to Tanzania to be a tour guide.”
He quickly replied with well wishes, very polite, but also very distant.
I replied again: “I quit my job, now I’m starting to enjoy the present 😊”
– I even added a smiling emoji.
As if that could prove: I was doing well. The moment I sent it, I suddenly realized: What was I trying to prove to him? Was I proving that, “Look, I’m also starting to pursue life like you” – or was I still seeking his validation? I closed the conversation and archived that chat. Then I threw myself completely into the work in Tanzania. Taking Chinese tourists to see animals, telling stories about plants, watching stars at night.
Experiencing life.
Those two months, I really thought I had healed. Until I returned home. Traveling south with my mom. Casually scrolling through LinkedIn, I saw him again. This time, he was planning to buy pianos. Expanding his music school, his career was thriving. He was thriving. That long-absent feeling came back – the stomach pain, the racing heartbeat. That familiar voice appeared again:
“Look, he’s getting better and better. And you?”
But this time, I knew what I had to do. I needed to delete him.
Block out all his context. Extinguish the fantasy I’d been holding onto, bit by bit. He had already moved on, moving forward. And I was still wandering back and forth. I opened his WhatsApp, my finger hovering over the “Delete contact” button, paused for a long time. Then, before pressing it, I said softly in my heart: “I’m sorry, I have to delete you.”
In that instant, I felt dazed. What was I sorry for? Who was I saying sorry to? Was I saying sorry to him? Sorry, you won’t be able to contact me anymore? Sorry, I deleted you, it’s not graceful enough? Or – Sorry to myself, because I’ve carried this for so long – the unwillingness, the self-blame, and the insecurity? I slowly understood:
I didn’t need to apologize.
I didn’t need to apologize for the doubting me back then.
That was me, that was my need at the time.
I didn’t need to apologize for the me who planned his future.
That was how I expressed love at the time.
I didn’t need to apologize for the me who didn’t understand him.
Back then, I hadn’t even learned to understand myself.
I certainly didn’t need to apologize for deleting his contact.
Because this – would really make me feel a bit better. Would let me finally move on. The pain was real, so real… So-called moving on has never been about deleting someone, but finally having the courage to embrace that once imperfect self.
I thought I was saying goodbye to him, but actually, I was welcoming myself back.
