#fleabagvibes

[emotionalghostown]

The awakening

He wasn’t just some random stranger; he was a piece of my past. Let’s call him Alex. Alex knew me before life twisted me into someone unrecognizable. He drifted back into my world just as I was pulling myself out of the wreckage that blue-eyed disaster had left behind—the one I’d let break me twice. I was healing, scarred and shattered, struggling to find myself again. And then, like a storm rolling in from nowhere, there he was. Alex.

We started with texts. They were small, tentative at first, just friends reconnecting. But somehow, he managed to reach into my soul faster with each message, reminding me of who I used to be. He could call me out in a way that cut through the mess, showing me parts of myself I’d forgotten. It was like he’d always known I was more than the broken girl my last relationship had left behind. He saw me—even when I couldn’t.

Of course, I fell for him. He revived parts of me I thought I’d lost. And just when he started to show me what it felt like to be valued, to be cared for, he got colder, like he was already slipping away. I felt the storm brewing inside me all over again—the familiar feelings of insecurity, abandonment, confusion.

So I returned to this chaotic, handwritten letter I’d written to myself—a way to make sense of the pain, the rage, the heartbreak. And yet, Alex lingered like a shadow, a reminder that I’d tasted something real, something that felt like love. I spiraled, caught between feeling abandoned and missing him, torn between anger and sadness. He’d promised me the world, and then, as if it were nothing, he was gone, too.

He finally texted me back after days of silence. I’d been there waiting, checking my phone obsessively, feeling the anger and hurt bubble up inside me with each unanswered message, each day that passed. And then he was there—an image, an audio clip, a simple response. I knew, deep down, things were unraveling. He’d talked about engagement, a future, just days before the silence. I wanted to believe him, but my gut knew this was the end.

I loved him, though, with a reckless, desperate kind of love. I dreamed of him, replayed his words, felt the ache of his absence like a phantom limb. I wanted to wrap myself around him, to say all the things I’d held back out of fear of being broken again. But reality had other plans. His life was moving in a different direction, and all I had left were fragments—conversations that once made my heart race but now felt hollow.

For a while, I held on, still trying to text, to call, hoping there was something left. But his replies grew fewer, shorter, until there was nothing at all. I told myself I didn’t need him, but the memories clung to me. I remembered the way he’d make me laugh, how he cried at sad movies, how his eyes lit up when he talked about the things he loved. I remembered the nights he’d hold his phone, whispering words of love that might’ve been lies, but filled me with a warmth I hadn’t felt in years.

And then, he left for good. He faded like a character in a story I’d stopped writing. I waited, hoping he’d return, but somewhere along the way, I realized he was gone. And just like that, the hope I clung to turned into anger—not at him, but at myself. I’d let another piece of me slip away, trusting someone again, only to be left shattered.

Alex was a moment of clarity, a spark in the darkness. Now he’s a memory, a part of my story that taught me more about love than I’d known, even if I wasn’t ready to receive it. I healed, I moved on, but a piece of me will always be his, no matter how many times I rewrite the ending.