I'm Your Ex With No Regrets

They told me I’d regret this. They drilled it into me like a mantra, like some sacred truth I was too blind to see. "You’ll regret walking away," they said, their voices dripping with condescension. "Love isn’t just about feelings—it’s about strategy." As if staying in a hollow relationship was some kind of life hack. But what they didn’t understand was this: regret isn’t about leaving. It’s about staying too long in a place that dulls your light.

They told me I should’ve stuck around even if I didn’t love him anymore, that I should’ve faked it until his fame made the pretense worth it. As if my heart were a stock option, and his talent was the IPO. They told me to pretend. To smile for the cameras, to play the doting girlfriend while he chased his dreams—dreams that had no room for me unless I was silent, unless I was small.

The Smile That Fooled Me

I fell in love with him the moment I met him. It was one of those clichéd, slow-motion moments—the kind you see in movies but never believe happens in real life. When anyone asked me back then, "What made you fall in love with him?" I always responded with a love-sick sigh: "His smile."

But it wasn’t just his smile. It was the way his entire being lit up, like he’d just discovered joy for the first time. The slow way his teeth came into view as he threw his head back, unselfconscious, unguarded. It was the way his laughter made the room tilt, like gravity itself bent to his happiness. For three years, I thought that was enough.

I loved seeing him smile so much that I became addicted to it. I curated my words, my reactions, my boundaries—all to keep that smile coming. I tolerated things I should’ve walked away from: the subtle put-downs disguised as jokes, the way he’d dismiss my dreams while demanding I cheerlead his. I was a supporting character in his story, and I didn’t even realize I’d handed him the pen.

The Unraveling

I wish I knew then that I was teaching him how to treat me. That every time I swallowed my anger, I was drawing him a map of my limits—or rather, my lack of them. Maybe then our love story would’ve turned out differently. Maybe I’d have seen the shouting for what it was: not passion, but control. The gaslighting wasn’t confusion—it was strategy. The mind games weren’t accidents; they were the foundation of a relationship built on uneven ground.

We were a ship headed for an iceberg, and by the end, we were both steering into it. Him, because he couldn’t imagine a world where he wasn’t the hero. Me, because I’d forgotten I could swim.

The Foolish Boy Who Became a Foolish Man

He was a foolish teenager. The kind of boy who mistook arrogance for confidence, who thought love was something you won, not something you built. Five years later, after his Twitter tantrum—a passive-aggressive, "Look at me now" meltdown—I’m convinced he’s still foolish. Just with a bigger platform and better PR.

Daniel never processed his words. He spoke in headlines, in catchy hooks meant to be sung, not lived. I was the editor, the one who stayed up late rearranging his chaos into coherence. We were opposites: I overanalyzed every silence; he never gave a second thought to the wounds he left behind. Yin and Yang? More like a hurricane meeting a stop sign.

The Breaking Point

Daniel wanted to be a musician. His parents called it "the will of a lazy child," but he didn’t need their blessing—just their money. He spent his entire allowance on a demo, on studio time, on the illusion of hustle. When he got signed, it was to a label that saw him as a product, not a person. And products don’t come with messy girlfriends.

They wanted to hide me. "Bad for the brand," they said. Daniel agreed before they’d even finished the sentence. Not with words, but with silence—the kind that screams.

I ended it. He sent his friends—his yes-men, his hype squad—to guilt me. "He’s gonna be a star," they slurred, as if that excused everything. As if fame was a free pass to be cruel.

The Twitter Tantrum

Five years later, he’s rich. He’s famous. His parents finally respect him. And yet, there he was, subtweeting me like a scorned teenager. "You broke my heart, and I turned my tears into riches." Classic. Predictable. Boring.

But here’s the truth, Daniel: If I could go back, I wouldn’t stay. I’d leave sooner. I’d reclaim those years I spent shrinking.

The Victory

I’m glad I was the muse behind your hit songs. Glad you spun my pain into profit. But more than that, I’m glad I’m free.

Because the real tragedy isn’t leaving. It’s staying long enough to forget who you are.

And I? I’m your ex with no regrets.

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