… I ghosted him and honestly? Not even a hint of guilt.
By Anonymous…
Okay, before you call me heartless, just hear me out. It wasn’t planned. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide, Today’s the day I’m going to ghost Nick (not his real name) it just…happened.
It all started with small things. Missed calls, unopened WhatsApp’s, plans I just wasn’t excited to show up for anymore. I think the beginning of the end was when he showed up at my door with a promise ring. Yes, you read that right, a promise ring. I’m 29, not 16, and I don’t need a silver band from Sterns to tell me you’re serious. He slipped it on my finger with this big grin like he’d just proposed at a Springbok game. I smiled, I thanked him, and I wore it for exactly 48 hours before it found its way to the back of my jewellery drawer, next to the bangles I only wear to family weddings.
It wasn’t that Nick was a bad guy. He was sweet… Predictable, reliable, always texting me goodnight with a moon emoji and a sweet dreams, babe. But I wanted fireworks. I wanted late-night adventures!
The real turning point came the night I went out with my best friend. We were at that rooftop bar in Sandton, the one with overpriced cocktails and views that make you forget your DSTV bill is overdue. I was two mocktails in when I realised I hadn’t checked my phone in hours. When I did, there were seven missed calls from Nick. Seven.
Where are you?
Are you okay?
Why aren’t you answering?
I stared at the screen, half expecting him to send out a search party. “He’s doing too much,” my friend said, eyeing my phone like it was contagious LOL. “You’re out with me, not solving world peace.” She was right. And I realised then that I was tired, tired of justifying why I wanted a life outside of dinner at his family’s house and movie nights with his little sister.
I didn’t text back that night. Or the next morning. Or the next week.
You’d think he would have shown up at my flat, right? But he didn’t. He texted, of course. Long paragraphs about how he didn’t understand what was going on, how he just wanted to talk. I read them, every word and then I did something I never thought I’d do. I muted his chats.
A month went by. Then two. I moved on with my life, quietly slipping back into the single scene. There was no dramatic confrontation, no messy tears, just silence. Sometimes I’d run into his friends at the mall, and they’d give me that look, like I’d keyed his car or burned his favourite hoodie. But they never said anything, and neither did I.
The last time I saw him was at Rosebank Mall. He was with someone else, laughing and looking lighter than I’d ever seen him. I felt a weird pang in my chest – was it regret? Guilt? I don’t know. But he saw me. And for a second, I thought he’d walk over and demand answers. Instead, he just nodded, gave me a polite smile, and carried on.
Maybe ghosting isn’t the best way to end things. But sometimes, when the words just aren’t there, silence says it all. Agree?
