The silence lasted for four days.
No texts. No calls. No apologies.
And just when I started to breathe a little easier…
He texted again.
Jayden: "Hey… I've been thinking about you."
I stared at the screen, unmoved.
It was always the same. He disappears, then reappears with a soft sentence like a thief slipping back in through the window instead of knocking at the door.
It wasn't love. It was a pattern.
And I was tired of pretending it wasn't.
I didn't reply.
Instead, I dropped my phone face down and opened the window. The afternoon breeze rolled in, carrying the smell of city life cars, food, people rushing. Everyone moving forward. Everyone going somewhere.
Except me. I had been standing still. Waiting for a man who only remembered me when he was bored or between other plans.
He didn't want a partner.
He wanted comfort.
He wanted me when it was easy.
I looked down at the text again.
"Thinking about you."
It sounded sweet. But I'd heard it too many times.
He never asked how I was.
He never said he was sorry.
He never asked to make things right.
Just that he was "thinking."
Thinking about me isn't the same as choosing me.
Missing me isn't the same as respecting me.
And texting me when you're lonely isn't the same as loving me.
I wrote all of that in my journal. In big, bold letters. Then I underlined it twice.
That night, I went for a walk. No music, no distractions. Just my thoughts and the sound of my own footsteps. I needed to clear my head.
A couple walked past me, laughing and holding hands. I didn't feel jealous. Just… quiet. Peaceful.
I realized I wasn't angry anymore.
I was just done.
Later, I met up with Sasha at a small bookstore café her idea, of course.
She waved at me from a corner table, her smile bright and full of sass.
"You look good, girl," she said as I sat down.
"Thanks," I replied, slipping into the seat across from her. "I feel… lighter."
"Let me guess," she grinned. "He texted?"
"Yup. Yesterday."
"Let me guess again," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Same old 'I miss you' energy?"
"Exactly. He said he's been thinking about me."
Sasha rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck.
"Thinking about you? What is that even supposed to mean? Thinking while doing what? Lying to someone else?"
I laughed really laughed and it felt good. The kind of laugh that bubbles up from a place you thought was too bruised to laugh again.
"I didn't reply," I said.
"Good." She leaned in. "You already gave him enough chances to prove he could show up. He never did."
"I guess I just wanted him to care," I said softly.
"He cares in the way people care about old shoes," she said. "They remember them when it rains, but they're never their first choice."
Ouch. But she wasn't wrong.
"You're not a backup, Ava. Stop acting like one."
Her words hit something deep. A place I had been afraid to touch.
Because for the longest time, I had confused being wanted with being chosen.
Jayden wanted me. But only when it suited him.
Only when his other options disappeared.
Only when his nights were too quiet.
Back home, I sat on the floor with a cup of ginger tea and reread some of my old journal entries.
So many entries started the same way:
"He texted again."
"I don't know what to do."
"Maybe this time it's different."
But it never was.
The truth settled in my chest like a stone:
He only texts when he's lonely.
Not when he loves me.
Not when he values me.
Just when he's empty and knows I'll fill the space.
The next morning, I cleaned my apartment like I was erasing him from every corner.
I changed the sheets.
Tossed the hoodie he left months ago.
Deleted old screenshots.
Removed our photos from my gallery.
I wasn't angry. I was ready.
Ready to stop waiting.
Ready to stop hoping.
Ready to make room for something better even if that better was just me, alone, at peace.
Around noon, a new message popped up.
Jayden: "You okay? I just feel like we shouldn't throw away everything we had."
I laughed out loud. Bitter and amused.
We?
We didn't throw anything away.
He dropped it. Repeatedly.
I stared at the message for a long time. My fingers hovered over the screen.
And then… I replied.
But not the way I used to.
Me: "We didn't throw it away. You ignored it until it faded. I'm done waiting for you to remember I'm worth something."
Then I blocked his number.
Not out of spite.
Out of self respect.
I had spent years lowering my standards just to feel loved.
But love shouldn't feel like a guessing game.
It shouldn't feel like an empty chair at breakfast or a cold cup of tea at midnight.
It should feel warm. Present. Real.
And if I hadn't found that yet, I would still rather be alone than be someone's maybe.
That evening, I lit a candle, curled up with a book, and turned my phone off.
No waiting.
No checking.
No hoping for a text that always hurt more than it healed.
I don't know who's coming next.
But I know who I'll never wait for again.
And that's a start.