All My Exes Hate Me Part 4: The One Who Almost Showed Up

By Gail F.
Published June 2025 · 4 min read




I used to think closure meant having a final conversation. Something tidy. One last exchange where we both say what we need to say and walk away better, wiser, cleaner.

But maybe closure is quieter than I thought. Maybe it looks like nothing at all.

This is about the one who almost showed up—but didn’t.
Or maybe, in his own strange way, he actually did.


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When I decided to continue this little series—my personal mess aired out like a Netflix docuseries nobody asked for—I didn’t expect him to reach out again. Part of me hoped he would. Another part of me knew better.

Still, it was 2:47 a.m. when his name flashed across my screen. Just a heart emoji and a voice note.

I didn’t open it for two days.
I wasn’t scared of what he’d say. I was scared of what I might feel.




Let me take you back for a second.

He was the one I trusted the most. Not because he earned it, necessarily—but because I needed to. Because he was the only one who made the chaos of my twenties feel like it had meaning.

We weren’t perfect, and that’s not a poetic understatement. We were messy and impulsive, sometimes even cruel in our silence. But we got each other in a way that made everything else blur.

That’s why I chose him first when I started this project. That’s why I was so shaken when he ghosted me right after agreeing to talk. I felt like I was being abandoned all over again.
Like history, on repeat.


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The voice note? It was short. Scratchy. Like he recorded it from bed.

> “I’ve been thinking about everything. And I know I messed up. But I’m proud of you. Really. I just couldn’t do it... not on tape.”



I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t respond.

But I listened to it again the next night. And then again the next week.


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People always talk about bravery like it’s this loud, disruptive thing. Like it comes wrapped in confrontation or declarations.

But what if it’s something smaller?

What if bravery is saying, I can’t talk about that yet—and meaning it?

What if it’s knowing you’ve done harm, and deciding to be quiet rather than make it about your redemption arc?

I thought I wanted him to participate in this story so I could finally tell the truth. But maybe what I really wanted was for him to acknowledge what we were, and what we weren’t.

And that one voice note?
It might’ve been enough.


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I kept writing. I kept talking to exes, some who were brutally honest, some who dodged my calls, and others who tried to rewrite history in their favor.

But he was different. His absence held weight. His silence felt like punctuation, not avoidance.

Every time someone asked, “Did you ever talk to him again?” I said no. Because technically, I didn’t. We never exchanged another word after that night.

But I think about him every time I open my voice memo app.
Every time I replay his message, I hear something new.

Fear. Regret. Respect.

Maybe even love, in its most diluted, exhausted form.


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This isn’t the explosive story people expect when they see the title of this series. There’s no betrayal, no screaming match, no karmic payback.

It’s just two people who were once something—trying not to make things worse.

And if I’m honest, that’s more powerful than any plot twist I could write.


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So, no. He never gave me the full interview. He never let me record a conversation or jot down notes from a cathartic sit-down.

But he gave me a sentence. A moment. A softness I didn’t realize I needed.

And maybe that’s the real story.

Maybe it always was.


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Coming soon: Part 5 – “The One I Still Think About”
when the past doesn’t stay in the past


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