#theexfiles

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.

It was worth it

Setting: A cocktail bar in Swanston Street.

Who: Mark, a late 30’s primary school teacher.

How I met him: Online, RSVP. My second online date after the disaster that was Wayne.

What happened: Mark and I meet on the steps out the front of Flinders Street. “Under the clocks” for any Melburnians reading this. We had been chatting about 6 weeks before this meeting. He looked a little different than his photos- a little older, a little grayer, not quite as athletic but was still a handsome man and hell I’m the last person to harp on about looks and photos- but I spot him easily enough and he sees me and makes a beeline for me. He gives me a kiss, I assume it’s aimed for the cheek but instead he kisses me on the lips which takes me back a little as I’m not used to that informality in a greeting by someone I don’t know but it doesn’t bother me. It’s windy, but not super cold for a November, and we decide to walk up the road rather than jump on a tram which would be pretty busy this time of night on a Tuesday. As we walk we talk. It’s easy to talk to him. Our talk is playful, as our online chats have always been banter, and thus it makes me instantly comfortable, like I’ve known him for longer than I have. At the cocktail bar he pulls my seat out for me (20 points to Gryffindor) and then we sit down. We order: him a red wine, me an espresso martini.

“My ex loved those.” He says.

“Cool. She had good taste then.” I reply.

“HAD.” He corrects me with a grin. “She broke up with me after all.”

“Had then.” I agree.

I don’t know it right then but this will be the theme of our date.

We already know a lot about one another so most of our conversation is joking around. I know his fave footy team, drink, food, place to visit, dream holiday, dream job, dream place to live etc. In some respects this is good because it, like I said earlier, makes me feel like I’ve known him forever. But when a silence looms here and there I can’t think of much to ask to bring the chatting back. I notice occasionally something I say or do brings a sort of frown to his face or he looks like he’s a million miles away (turns out it’s more like 28 k’s).

We get another drink- this time I go for a mojito. He has another wine. “My ex hated mojito’s.” He tells me.

“Oh-Kay.” I say, not really sure how I’m meant to respond to this.

And suddenly it’s like the floodgates have opened!

We get something to eat, to share; a plate of wedges with sour cream and chilli sauce. (His ex was obsessed with chilli I find out.) When I inadvertently get some chilli sauce in the sour cream he is pissed off. “Can’t you keep them separate?” He complains.

I don’t think this is a major crime but it turns out that even though he likes both sauces he doesn’t like them being mixed in their little bowls. Just on his wedges and in his stomach.

“My ex always did that, she’s such a fucking messy eater. I kept threatening to buy her a bib.” He tells me.

Sigh.

For the next 42 minutes (yes I counted) before I could make a good excuse to leave I learnt more about what his ex liked and didn’t like than I did about him. It was clear from the way he spoke about her he wasn’t still in love with her (like bad date tale #3 Wayne), but he clearly wasn’t totally over the breakup either.

I went to the bathroom where I wondered how in movies or tv shows they manage to escape out a window or through a back entrance when clearly that was not possible. Plus I couldn’t bring myself to do something like that anyway. Instead I resorted to ringing my friend and getting her to ring me in 10 minutes with an emergency.

And she does. Though I have a crazy hard time keeping a straight face at her Emergancy: “I need you to take me to the ER, I got a dildo stuck up my butt and I can’t turn it off or get it out,” is her excuse.

Though I tell him she’s hurt her leg.

“Can’t someone else take her?” He asks.

I put on a disappointed face, give a rueful shrug and say, “nope, I wish but no. Still that’s what best friends are for right?” (I’m still awaiting my Oscar from this performance btw!) It’s only later I wonder why he didn’t think about the fact that I’m not exactly in the position to drive.

We pay- halves- and he walks me to the tram stop. “You kicking on?” I ask.

“Nah, going to go pick up some things from my exes.” He says.

Shocker. (His ex lives in Chelsea- just over 28 Ks from the city.)

We say goodbye and part ways.