I’ve Been Ghosted So Many Times I Might As Well Be a Cemetery

Is it still heartbreak if he never said goodbye? Or just emotional trespassing by someone who slipped out the back door of your life and called it closure?

There’s a certain art to being ghosted. First, there’s the slow fade — texts take longer to come in, and when they do, they’re shorter and emptier than before. You go from paragraphs to periods. From “good morning, sunshine” to “lol.” From sharing your day to replying with a reaction. Then comes the silence. Not an argument. Not a reason. Just… nothing. You sit there, staring at that last message like it’s a tombstone, the conversation dead without warning. And maybe you’re even embarrassed — not just that they disappeared, but that, once again, you fell for the old “I’m not like the others” act.

I used to take it personally. Like, deeply personally. I replayed every text, every emoji, every late reply, convincing myself that if I could just figure out what went wrong, I could fix it — or maybe even prevent it next time. Did I come on too strong? Did I overshare? Did I misread everything? It was like a post-mortem on something that wasn’t even officially alive.

After it happened a couple of times, I tried changing. I started editing myself — becoming more mysterious, more distant, playing the “cool girl” role I never actually auditioned for. I laughed less freely, replied less quickly, and hid the parts of me that loved too loudly. I toned myself down, hoping the dimmer version of me would be easier to digest.

The result? Nothing changed. I still kept getting ghosted. Again and again.

A couple dozen hauntings later, I’ve started to wonder if the problem isn’t me — but the fact that modern dating feels like signing up for temporary emotional employment. No contracts, no benefits, no warning before you’re let go — just a revolving door of connections that leave you questioning your worth every time someone walks away.

This generation isn’t interested in longevity. It’s all about convenience. “I’ll stay until I’m bored.” Or worse — “I’ll stay until someone better comes along.” It’s a world of endless options, endless distractions, where commitment feels like a risk too big to take — so most prefer to keep things casual, temporary, and safe from real feelings.People don’t even say goodbye anymore. They just disappear, leaving you to wonder if you imagined the whole thing.

And still… every time I let someone in, I do it with this ridiculous little thing called hope.

Hope that maybe this one won’t vanish.

Hope that maybe he’ll care enough to stay, even when it’s messy.

Hope that even when we have nothing to talk about, he’ll find something — anything — to keep the connection alive.

Hope that I won’t end up feeling like I was always the only one trying.

But here’s the thing: every ghost has a story.

And so do I.

Mine just has better grammar, a killer outfit, and the self-respect to know that silence is an answer — and it’s not the one I deserve.

So here’s to being ghosted. Again.

Another day, another haunting.

But this time? I’m bringing sage, boundaries, and a full heart that knows its worth.

I’ve realized I’m not asking for too much. I’m just asking the wrong people.

So the next time someone goes quiet, I won’t chase or spiral. I’ll grab my metaphorical incense, center myself, and move on.

Because I refuse to mourn boys who treat connection like a limited-time offer — disappearing when vulnerability shows up.

No more rereading messages or rewriting goodbyes that were never said. Silence is an answer, and it’s not the one I deserve.

Here’s to another haunting — but this time, I’m the one lighting the way forward.