I Texted My Ex Every Day for a Month — Here's What I Learned

It started as a joke.

Not the heartbreak—no, that was very real. That part felt like someone handed my heart a sledgehammer and whispered, “Smash yourself.” But the texting thing? That was me being stupid on purpose. Or so I told myself.

Day one was simple:

Me: “Hey, I just saw someone who looks like you but happier. Weird, right?”

No reply, obviously.

We had broken up two months prior. A mature, adult breakup that involved shouting, deleting each other’s Spotify playlists, and passive-aggressive Instagram stories. I had gone through all five stages of grief—except maybe acceptance. I skipped that one.

So when I texted her that first day, I thought I was being clever. I thought I was reclaiming my power. Or at least being ironic. But somewhere around day four, irony gave way to longing.

Day 4:

Me: “Remember that time we got locked out of your apartment and had to climb the fire escape? Still have the scar.”

Me (5 minutes later): “Not that I’m blaming you. But I definitely blame you.”

Still no reply.

I should mention: I never told anyone I was doing this. Even my best friend, Jared, would’ve thrown my phone in a lake. He’s the kind of guy who thinks deleting your ex’s number is the equivalent of a spiritual detox. He untagged himself from every photo with his ex before they even broke up.

But I didn’t delete her number. I renamed it to “Don’t Text Her, You Idiot.” Ironically, that became my most texted contact for 30 consecutive days.

Day 7:

Me: “What do you do when you want to hate someone but your cat still sleeps on the hoodie they left behind?”

I started treating the messages like therapy. Free, emotionally reckless therapy. At first, I expected her to respond—maybe with a “stop,” or a sarcastic “you okay?” But by day ten, I realized the silence wasn’t resistance. It was peace.

That hurt more than the breakup.

Day 11:

Me: “You’re not even mad. That’s what kills me. I’m over here playing therapist to ghosts, and you’re probably dating a guy with symmetrical facial features and a gym membership.”

On day 14, I actually didn’t text her. I opened the chat. I hovered. But I didn’t send. That silence from my end? That was new.

It wasn’t a breakthrough, but it was a crack in the obsession.

Of course, I ruined it by texting her twice the next day.

Day 15:

Me: “Skipped yesterday. Did you notice?”

Me: “Kidding. I know you didn’t.”

Somewhere around day 20, things shifted. I stopped texting her what I wanted her to hear. I started texting her what I needed to say—to myself. It became less about her, and more about reflection. A mirror, if the mirror could ghost you.

Day 22:

Me: “I miss the way you believed in me. But I’m starting to believe in me, too. Just... slower.”

The thing is, heartbreak doesn’t come with a timer. You can’t microwave closure. And sometimes, the dumbest ideas lead you to the most honest parts of yourself.

By day 27, I didn’t expect a reply anymore. I didn’t want one.

Day 27:

Me: “I saw your favorite book at the store today. I didn’t buy it. I just smiled at it like a weirdo and moved on. I think that’s something.”

And then, on day 30, I sent the last text.

Me:

"I texted you every day for a month. You never replied. And I finally get it now.

It’s not that you’re cruel. It’s that you’re done. And I’m getting there too.

This isn’t a guilt trip. It’s a goodbye.

Thanks for loving me once. I’ll take it from here."

I deleted the conversation.

I renamed the contact back to her real name.

Then I deleted the contact completely.

And for the first time in two months, I opened a new chat—this time with myself—and typed,

“You’re going to be okay.”

No reply needed.