How to Get Over An Ex
Advice that doesn't suck.
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“It is more fitting for a man to laugh at life than to lament over it.”—Seneca
We had been together for two years. I shouldn’t have looked through her phone. But in my defence, she made it very easy.
She had been acting suspicious for weeks—quickly switching apps when I walked into the room, laughing at her messages like she had smoked some weed, and, most damning of all, being extremely nice to me. Nothing sets off alarm bells like unexpected kindness in a relationship whose health is marked by lots of arguments and banter. And yet, I had resisted to look into it. Because I was better than that. Because I was a mature, trusting, evolved human being.
So when her phone lit up late one night, unlocked, I did what any completely rational and emotionally stable person would do. I glanced. And there it was. When are you telling him? Now, I’m not a genius, but this was not the kind of message one receives from a plumber about a delayed appointment. Unless, of course, the plumbing in question was metaphorical.
My stomach grumbled and turned into a sort of horrified clench that made me regret every meal I had ever eaten. My hands went cold. My heart started beating so loudly I was fairly certain she could hear it in her sleep.
After exactly 2.5 seconds of moral struggle, I picked up the phone. I scrolled. Up. Down. There was nothing left to misinterpret.
Meanwhile, she slept peacefully, oblivious to the fact that I was sitting beside her, rethinking every single decision that had led me to this exact moment. I wish I hadn’t seen that fucking shit.
At that moment, I had two choices: wake her up, confront her, and have a dramatic argument that would lead to an immediate breakup and the tragic throwing of sentimental objects—or sit in silence like a Victorian ghost, staring into the middle distance while my world crumbled. I chose option two. Not because it was the mature thing to do, but because and I was too stunned to function.
I don’t remember the confrontation the next day. I assume it was spectacular—filled with gaslighting, accusations, lots of Really? and Wow. Just wow. And at least one theatrical “I can’t believe this.” But what I do remember, with vivid clarity, is the exact moment she walked out of my apartment for the last time. The door shut. The silence settled. And I, a grown man with a bank account and a basic understanding of emotional resilience, sat on the floor like an abandoned pet. Gaddamit!
At first, I thought I was handling it well. I went to work. I ate food. I convinced myself that my pain was mysterious and poetic rather than pathetic and overly familiar. The days that followed were a crash course in the seven stages of grief, except I got stuck somewhere between “pathetic moping” and “annoying my friends beyond reason.” They tried their best. They took me out, poured drinks down my throat, and strategically seated me next to new, interesting people in the hopes that I might flirt instead of sigh dramatically into my beer.
But I had developed a fascinating new skill: repelling romantic prospects at record speed. “Hey, so what do you do?” a woman would ask, smiling. “Oh, you know,” I’d say, swirling my drink like I was in a film noir. “Just trying to survive in a world where my ex used to text me goodnight, but now she’s probably texting some other guy, and he probably doesn’t even appreciate how cute her sleepy texts were.” She’d nod politely, make up an excuse about needing to run some errands, and leave. My friends stopped trying after that.
I’d also compare myself to everyone—which I came to realize is a fun masterclass at making myself feel shitty. It involved looking at happy couples in public and thinking, Why them and not me? It was seeing my friend receive a “thinking of you” text and feeling victimized by the universe. It involved watching a romantic scene in a movie and thinking, Must be nice to have someone who doesn’t cheat on you.
But then came the day. The day I truly hit rock bottom. This happened on a random Tuesday at work while I was doing my best impression of a functioning human. I wasn’t even thinking about her. I was fine. And then I walked into the office and saw it—flowers. Chocolates. Love notes. It wasn’t even Valentine’s Day. It was just one of those days when people in relationships do ridiculous things like appreciate each other. Meanwhile, my desk was painfully empty. No gifts. No sweet notes. Not even a passive-aggressive sticky note from my boss reminding me about a missed deadline. I had never felt more single in my life.
I wished a person would tell me they loved me and meant it. I wished she would have been cool and wanted us to grow old together. I wished I could have back what we had because it was real, fun, beautiful. Truly, if wishes were horses, I would have a whole ranch. But in all seriousness, my soul wouldn’t let me to be with someone like that. Yet, for some reason I couldn’t get over her.
I need to move on. I told myself.
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How to Get Over Your Ex
"If my woman goes away, she takes with her nothing but herself." — Seneca (paraphrased).
Below is a short practical essay on how to get over your ex.
It’s what helped me and I believe will do the same for you too.
The Comfort of Unfinished Stories
Some losses are harder to let go than others—not because the person was irreplaceable, but because letting go would mean confronting something more unsettling than heartbreak itself.