Dear Ghosted,
I regret to inform you that I am not interested in pursuing a relationship — sexual or otherwise — with you, but you already knew that. What you might not know is how I managed to type this letter, seeing as how I couldn’t manage to send a text or make a phone call, which would surely take much less time. However, considering the realm of existence as it is, my shortcomings are understood and even more so expected. While I will continue to watch your Instagram stories, confusing you by breadcrumbing you into thinking I genuinely care, the action is merely a habit of my technology addiction and should not be taken as indicative of interest.
As you can imagine, droves of others have meandered in and out of my life. It becomes a paradox of choice when the gender of your sexual preference is quite literally at your fingertips, something akin to standing in a cereal aisle — the next best thing is always to the left, shiny and new. Maybe Cuba is onto something, after all.
This coveted position, as my girlfriend or merely a person I respect enough to respond to, will continue to go unfilled until I, personally, get my own fill. I will, however, keep your number on file for a lonely night a couple years from now. Perhaps even an apology if I decide to finally do the internal work and heal from that which plights me from pursuing anything more than the dalliance we had. Or maybe I will be married. One cannot be too sure, again considering the realm of existence as it is.
I understand the state this must leave you in, as I, too, have been ghosted. Afterall, the synonym for “unhealed” is “hurt” and surely you can remember the cliché that spirals around the internet through the cycle of Twitter feeds: hurt people hurt people. And given that you seemed adjusted, stated your intentions, and genuinely displayed interest, I can only imagine the world of hurt you are in now; how you want to pass that hurt onto someone else.
And of course, you will always have Hozier. I said I liked him, too, but I only knew one song and stopped listening to it after I watched the music video. Hopefully my ghosting does not haunt your safe refuge in this world; the memories of our laughs shared and thoughts passed over wine do not creep into his lyrics while you’re scream-crying them in your car.
And given that you are, as you put it — as you said your aunt put it — “dating with intention”, it is all the more understandable that you are angry. Perhaps buying too much into the fairytales has led you astray, or maybe it was an overconsumption of Nora Ephron films, or maybe it was not reading into Nora Ephron’s real life, where she was cheated on while several months pregnant. When watching these films, you failed to acknowledge that they were Nora Ephron’s escape from reality, not much unlike the ill-placed expectations and future you put on me.
You said these to me because Brene Brown told you to be vulnerable. A mistake, in hindsight, you might think at this moment. But surely, in several months, you will chalk this up to a lesson and once more lace your fingers around hope for something — someone — better. I told you I liked your hope; your passionate curiosity and love for love, and this was true. Not everything is lost when one thing goes missing. And I hope you find hope again, even if I am long gone.
While you proved yourself in our time together, it is in the best interest of both of us to part and my unexpected exit is the way in which I expressed that. Still, I enjoyed my brief time with you, using you, walking you home in one way or another. Perhaps one day you, too, will look back with gratitude for a brief moment before you run your hands on the back of your husband while he cooks you dinner in the home you built together. Or maybe I’m just an asshole.
Sincerely,
Ghost
