This is Why I Ghosted You...

To E,

There’s so much I want to say to you, yet at the same time, nothing at all. I miss you. I miss talking to you, seeing you, holding you, hearing your voice. I still remember you, but I’m slowly starting to forget what you feel like, and I hate that I can’t picture your smile anymore. I saw the moon the other day and thought of you. It hurt to know we could both be looking at the same thing, yet we’re worlds apart now, so far from what once was. The moon didn’t seem as beautiful as it did when you were by my side.

Some days, I don’t think of you at all. Other days, it hurts just as much as when I left. I don’t know when I’ll stop caring or how long it’ll take to move on. Since July, I haven’t looked at or talked to anyone else. I know it hasn’t been that long, but I doubt I’ll feel attracted to anyone in the near or even distant future. The thought of it makes me feel sick. I still don’t want anyone to touch me but you.

I guess I’m thankful for our experience because it’s made me want to be alone for the foreseeable future, to take time for myself and heal from the things that made me feel so alone in the first place. You weren’t the first person to make me feel this way, but you hit harder than most. When I said I loved you, I meant it. That’s not something that just fades in a matter of weeks. It feels a little pathetic, honestly—after only knowing you for a month, here I am, two months later, still holding on. I’ve done everything I could think of to force myself to unlove you. I blocked you on WhatsApp, deleted your contact, erased our pictures, and even blocked you on Instagram. But nothing seems to make it better except time. And while it has gotten easier, I’d be lying if I said it still didn’t hurt like hell when I think about you.

The other day, you liked my story, and it triggered me. I don’t know why you did it, and honestly, it pissed me off. You’re not following me, and I’m not following you, so how did you even know I uploaded something? I don’t know if you were just saying “hi,” thinking of me, or trying to remind me you still exist. Or maybe you did it mindlessly. This is why I hate social media—it makes me overthink.

If you think I don’t care about you anymore, you’re wrong. I blocked you because I care too much. I ghosted you because the love I had for you wasn’t the same as the puppy love you had for me. Maybe it was just a novelty for you—being with an “older woman,” as you’d say, or getting with an American girl like the ones before. They didn’t care about me either, but they convinced me they did. I don’t think you’re like them, though. I just think you’re too young to know what you really want, and that’s not your fault. But I knew what I wanted, and it was you.

I don’t think you intended to hurt me, but you did. I’ve been so upset and angry that I had to completely remove you from my life. You didn’t seem to care if I was there or not, so I did us both a favor and took myself out of the equation. I feel stupid for thinking it would end differently this time. I wanted to be the one for you, just like I thought you were for me. Being with you was like a dream, but in the end, I had to wake up. While I was just an option for you, you were a priority to me. I refuse to be anyone’s second choice. If I can’t be everything to someone, then I’d rather be nothing at all.

I’m writing this because when you liked my story on Instagram, it messed me up. I started crying immediately. I was irritated, thinking you were playing some kind of game, breadcrumbing me. I texted my friend Sam, telling her I wanted to text you, thinking maybe you were sending me a subliminal message. But I was also frustrated that you didn’t just DM me. Why couldn’t you be direct? Why use a "like" instead of words? I only knew you for a month, E, but I thought you were better than that. I thought highly of you, but now I feel like you’re just another scared little boy sending mixed signals. My heart is not a toy for you to poke at when you’re bored.

Even with all this, I don’t blame you. I feel resentment, but I’m not angry with you. I can imagine what it looks like from your perspective, how it seemed like I just disappeared in August. It had been a few days since you last texted me, and I was getting increasingly furious, my mind running wild. You were in Albania, and I started imagining the worst—that you were with other women. It tore me apart, so I blocked you for good. I felt stupid, thinking I could never measure up to the “perfect” Albanian girls. So I cut you off, no more back-and-forth texts, no more wondering, no more “us.”

I don’t know if you’ve tried to reach out since. I’d imagine you might have, but when you saw only one check mark with no response, you probably realized something was wrong. I don’t have Instagram now, so the only way you could reach me would be through TikTok, Facebook, or email. If you had, I’d be impressed by how determined you were—but you didn’t. That made me feel even more discarded.

When I reactivated my Instagram for a week, I checked your profile—no photos, nothing to stalk. One day, you posted a story, and I almost asked my friend Elena to check it for me. But I changed my mind. What if it was your new girlfriend? I didn’t want to know. Elena told me your profile was private. I wondered if you saw that I viewed it, or if you’d made it private because mine was now private, too. I couldn’t help but think, “Oh my God, he hates me.”

Lately, I’ve been wondering if I hurt your feelings. I remember you once said that if someone didn’t want you, you wouldn’t bother chasing them. “Whatever,” you said. Was I just “whatever” to you? Maybe you think I have a boyfriend and that’s why I blocked you. Maybe you think I don’t like you, or I’m hiding something. Your birthday is coming up on September 24th, and I’ve been debating whether or not I should reach out. Part of me wants to explain myself, to say I’m sorry for ghosting you, and that it wasn’t my intention to hurt you, but I had to protect myself. I have to preserve my mental health and do what was best for me. I never wanted to make you feel like you didn’t matter—because you did, from the day I met you.

I may be going to Italy for eight weeks in October, but I’m hesitant because I know I’ll be tempted to call you, to see you. But my heart can’t handle another goodbye, not with you. I can’t go through the pain of losing you all over again. So I doubt it’s a good idea. Since coming back to the U.S., I don’t even feel attractive. I went off my medication, cut my hair, and stopped caring about how I look. I feel fat, and I worry that if I saw you, you wouldn’t think I’m beautiful anymore. I don’t want to feel that rejection. As much as I want you to hold me, I know it’s better to let you go—for good this time.

I’m feeling a mess of emotions—complex and uncomfortable—but I remind myself that three months ago, I didn’t even know you existed. I was fine then, and I’ll be alright again now. It’s just hard to close the door on someone I trusted and let in, especially since I don’t let people in easily. You’re a good person, I think, and I still believe your intentions were sincere. Despite everything, I don’t have hard feelings toward you. It’s just complicated.

If we’re meant to be in each other’s lives, we will be. And if we’re not, then I have to accept that. Maybe I’ll see you again, maybe I won’t. I’ll have to be okay either way. You’re still the most beautiful man I’ve ever known, and even though we’re no longer connected, I wish you nothing but the best. I hope this next year is the best one yet for you. I am setting you free.

Happy birthday, E.

All the love in the world,

Cicci