Not Her

October 17, 2025 There’s something I haven’t said like this before.

I wrote about it once—

but since then, I'd been unwilling to admit how much it still haunted me.

I’ve really struggled with how quickly he moved on.

It hits the softest, oldest places—

the ones carved by abandonment and rejection,

the ancient belief that I wasn’t enough to keep,

that if I’d just been smarter, more talkative, less needy,

maybe he would’ve stayed.

Even though I know better.

Even though I understand trauma bonds and ego and addiction to validation,

there are moments when I still spiral—

when my brain tells fantasy stories about how he’s suddenly healed and happy,

how she is the reward for all the lessons he learned from me and others.

That’s the lie the mind tells when the heart still aches.

And when the spirals come,

I think about her.

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be her—

to be the next woman

to a man whose story still echoes through mine.

To step into a love that still hums with old ghosts,

where someone else’s energy lingers in the corners,

the air carries the scent of what came before,

and allegations of betrayals, lies, and abuse linger.

To know there was a woman before her

who didn’t go quietly,

who turned her pain into words,

who shared her side instead of burying it.

I don’t know what he’s told her about me.

I lean toward a story about how I am bad and he is human.

I do know he was setting the stage before I was even gone—

while I was still in his bed,

still sharing dinners,

still opening Christmas gifts,

still wearing his diamonds.

And I know she isn’t new.

Their story began before mine did—

built, as he once admitted,

on previous deception.

None of that seems like a solid foundation.

Someone who once loved him told me,

“He has a way with words that manipulates emotions.”

She was right.

It’s hard to imagine that has changed.

Because what I know—deep down, beneath the ache—is that moving on too fast

isn’t healing.

It’s avoidance dressed up as recovery.

It’s emotional suppression disguised as love.

It’s swapping out the mirror before the reflection sinks in.

It’s deep-rooted shame

that mistakes motion for growth

and distraction for “I’m okay.”

It’s ego that says, “It wasn’t me—it was her.”

I know, because I’ve done it too.

I’ve rushed to fill the silence,

mistaking presence for peace.

I’ve tried to outrun pain by attaching to possibility.

And every time, the unhealed ghosts followed me.

That’s what happens when you don’t pause between chapters.

You don’t start a new story—

you just bring the unfinished one with you.

So yes, sometimes it hurts that I was replaced so quickly.

But I know,

He didn’t move on.

He just moved—over.

Dragging the wreckage of our story into hers,

just like he once dragged the remnants of his last life into mine.

And I don't ache for her, though.

She was complicit in this story.

But who knows—maybe they are happy, healthy, fine.

Maybe he is devoted and honest,

and has fully let go of the ghosts of yesterday.

Maybe she doesn't care and just accepts him.

I don’t know. I am not them.

I do know—I’m thankful.

To be on my own path.

Healthy. Whole. Free.

And yet, sometimes I still wish he’d chosen me.

And our time together was more than just a painful lesson.