I always told myself I would never share this. Not this story. Not this version of me. But it has been eating me alive, and I think the only way to breathe again is to finally let it out.
Last year, I got back with my ex.
He told me he broke up with his wife.
He told me they were done.
And stupid me… I believed him.
At first it was just messing around, just filling a lonely space. Then somehow he started coming over almost every night. And I let him. I let him slide back into my life like nothing ever happened.
The routine was honestly everything to me.
I cooked dinner almost every night.
We watched movies on Netflix like old times.
Friday nights meant wine, laughter, inside jokes, and that fake little world where everything felt safe again. I convinced myself it meant something. I convinced myself he was choosing me.
And for a while… I let myself feel happy. For the first time in a long time.
Months went by like that. Me pretending. Him avoiding anything real. Every time I tried to bring up the “what are we” conversation, he shut me down. Literally shut me down. He told me to “just enjoy the moment.” Like my feelings were some annoying noise he didn’t want to hear.
And I was so in love with him that I accepted crumbs.
Every. Single. Time.
Eventually I got tired and asked him to define the relationship. He kept asking for more time. More patience. More understanding. And like a fool, I kept giving it to him because I didn’t want to lose him. Having him around made me feel good. He inspired me. I kept my home spotless. I looked after myself better. I felt alive again. It breaks my heart to think about that now… because someone should not have that much power over me.
But I loved him.
Even after our breakup, my love for him never changed.
In my head, he was the king of my world. Whatever he said, I followed.
The sickest part of all this is that he only came back to me when his life was falling apart. He lost his job. They repossessed his brand new car because he could not afford the payments. So he used mine. The car I was paying for. And stupid me, I let him take it, while I took the bus and train to work. I do not know what hurts more — the fact that I allowed it or the fact that he never even felt guilty.
He drove my car every day, doing Uber, saving money, rebuilding himself… using me as his safety net. I convinced myself we were rebuilding together, that this was our comeback story.
Then one day he told me he had to go back to Africa to finalize his divorce. I didn’t like the idea, but I tried to be understanding. I told myself this was good. He saved up, he got back on his feet, and now he could finally divorce her and come back to me properly. In my head, this was the moment everything would fall into place.
I drove him to the airport that morning.
I waited with him.
I hugged him like a wife.
He kissed me like I was his future.
He called me during his layover.
He called me again when he landed.
And I felt secure. I felt chosen. I felt stupidly hopeful.
Later that night… I opened TikTok.
And what I saw —
