I ghosted my soulmate — and here’s why.

The one that felt like home.

We met in a very unromantic way: I downloaded a dating app out of boredom. But from our first conversation, something clicked.

He wasn’t just being funny — he saw me. He really saw me. We talked for hours about everything from childhood trauma to conspiracy theories about the moon landing. It didn’t feel like flirting. It felt like finding a missing piece I didn’t realize I had lost.

I started calling him my soulmate before we even met in person. He said the same thing. And when we finally met, it wasn’t fireworks — it was calm. Safe familiar.

Very familiar.

The slow build-up of fear

The connection was real. But with that connection came fear. Deep, unshakeable fear.

I had spent most of my life building walls, believing that being too vulnerable would always end in pain. And here was someone climbing over every defense I had carefully put up—someone who wanted to know the real me.

At first, I cringed. He would touch my face like it meant something. And it did.

But then doubts began to creep in.

What if he left?

What if I wasn’t who he thought I was?

What if I let him in and lost myself?

The pause I couldn’t explain

I didn’t set out to ghost him. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to disappear. It happened in slow motion.

It took me longer to respond to texts. Canceled plans at the last minute. Pulled away from conversations that used to light me up. Every time he asked what was wrong, I made some vague excuse — work pressure, fatigue, “just in my head.”

Really? I was terrified of losing my true self. And loving.

And one day, I stopped answering altogether.

Why did I disappear? People think ghosting is cruel. And it is.

But sometimes, it’s also survival.

I didn’t get mad at him because he did something wrong. I ghosted him because he made everything right.

He showed me a version of love that I didn’t think I deserved. And I wasn’t ready to take it. I hadn’t done the work. I hadn’t healed. I was still the person who mistook chaos for passion and silence for safety.

Loving him forced me to face parts of myself that I wasn’t ready to see.

I could say whatever I wanted.

It’s been over a year since I ghosted him. No texts. No calls. No closure.

I think about him more than I care to admit. I wonder if he hates me. I wonder if he still thinks about the version of us that could have been.

If I could say one thing, it would be this: You weren’t the problem. I was still learning to love myself.

And before I could love anyone else — even my partner — I had to rebuild.

Healing in Silence

Ghosting him gave me space to grow. Not in a healthy or admirable way, but in a necessary way.

Since then, I’ve started therapy. I’ve opened up old wounds, rewritten narratives, and stopped confusing intimacy with danger. I’ve learned to sit with the pain instead of running away from it.

Would I do it the same way again? No

But would I be where I am now if I hadn't? I'm not sure.

would I be where I am now if I hadn’t? I’m not sure.