10 Clear Signs Your ex is not over you Psychology

It was a Tuesday. I remember because Tuesdays are garbage days in my building and I was already late for work.

My phone buzzed. Instagram notification. From him. Not a message - those stopped six months ago. A story. I shouldn't have looked. I know better. But I looked.

Sunset. Brooklyn Bridge. Pretty, I guess. But my eyes went to the corner of the frame. That stupid yellow mug. The one with the chip on the handle that I got from that flea market in Williamsburg. The one I left at his place because "I'll get it next time."

Next time never came. Because he ended it. Over text. "I need space." Classic.

And now, six months later, there it was. Holding his coffee. In his morning light. Like nothing happened.

I stared at that mug for ten minutes. Ten minutes of my life I'll never get back, analyzing pixels like a forensic detective. Why keep it? Why use it? Why let it into your frame if you're so "moved on"?

Here's what I know now that I didn't know then.

People keep what they can't say goodbye to

Sentimental objects are emotional bookmarks. We think we're just being practical - "it's a good mug" - but we're lying. If he wanted to erase me, that mug would be in a donation box. Instead, it's in his hand every morning. A ritual. A connection he won't admit he needs.

I did the same thing, by the way. Kept his hoodie for eight months. Wore it when I was sad. Smelled it until the smell became just... cotton. Then I threw it away. But it took eight months.

The emotional test you don't know you're giving

Three weeks after the mug incident, I saw him. Accidentally. At that coffee shop on 5th. The one that was ours.

I said "hey" because I'm not a coward. Or maybe I am, but I said it anyway.

And his face. God, his face. Like I slapped him and hugged him at the same time. He got red. Then pale. Then he knocked over his water.

"I'm fine," he said, wiping the table. "Totally fine. Great actually. New job. New apartment."

The words came out like a script. Too fast. Too rehearsed. And his hands were shaking.

Real "over it" looks like boredom. Like "oh, hey, how's it going" with actual curiosity but no charge. No electricity. No spilled water.

He was still carrying voltage. I was still live wire to his system.

When you want to reach out but don't know how

Look, I'm not proud of this, but after that coffee shop disaster, I almost texted him. At 2 AM. You know the text. "Hey, thinking about you..."

I typed it. Deleted it. Typed it again. Then I went down a rabbit hole. Reading everything I could about whether reaching out was smart or stupid. Whether there was a way to actually fix what was broken, or if I was just being pathetic.

I found this thing that actually helped me think straight. Not some "play hard to get" nonsense, but actual perspective on what happens when you hit send on that message. If you're spiraling like I was, maybe check it out: Text Your Ex Back Review - What You Need to Know Before You Send That Message

I didn't end up sending that text. But reading that helped me understand why I wanted to, and whether it was really him I missed or just the idea of us.

The rebound that announced itself

Two months later, the photos started. Her. The new her. At restaurants I recognized. At the park we used to walk in. That same Brooklyn Bridge spot from the mug photo, but now with two shadows.

#NewChapter #Blessed #Love

Every post felt like it was written in all caps. LOOK AT ME BEING FINE. LOOK AT HOW MOVED ON I AM.

I know this because I've done this. Posted the happy when I was breaking. Curated the "best life" when I couldn't get out of bed. Social media isn't documentation; it's defense mechanism.

Real moving on is invisible. It's quiet. It's waking up one day and realizing you haven't checked their profile in a week and you don't care. There's no announcement for that. No hashtag.

Why we destroy ourselves instead of feeling

The last time I heard about him, it wasn't good. Mutual friend told me. Drinking too much. Angry at small things. Not the person I knew.

And I understood. Because I was there once. When the pain is too big and you don't have tools to hold it, you become someone else. Someone louder. Someone reckless. Someone who doesn't have to sit in the quiet where the grief lives.

Breakups aren't just about losing a person. They're about losing a version of yourself. The you that was loved by them. The you that existed in their eyes. And sometimes, instead of grieving that death, we try to kill everything else too.

So was he over me?

The mug says no. The spilled water says no. The performance of "fine" screams no.

But here's the thing I learned - and this is the part that matters, the part I wish someone told me when I was staring at that photo:

Him not being over me doesn't mean we should be together.

Sometimes love stays longer than it should. Sometimes people keep your things and your memory and still can't give you what you need. Sometimes "not over you" is just... residue. Emotion without direction. Wanting without capacity.

I threw away the screenshot of that mug photo last month. Deleted it. Not because I'm angry. Because I finally understood that his holding on was his business, not my hope.

The mug probably still sits there. Still holds his coffee. Still reminds him of something he lost but couldn't keep.

And I'm here, writing this, not because I want him back, but because I want you to know: if you're looking for signs, you'll find them. But signs aren't invitations. They're just... information.

Information about where he is. Not where you should go.

What object did your ex keep that told you everything? Drop it below. And then let it go.