Ghosted, Blocked, and Still Healing: A Modern Love Story

I met Ryan on a Wednesday, which felt strangely poetic. Wednesdays were my least favorite day of the week—too far from the weekend to be exciting, and too close to Monday to be hopeful. But that Wednesday, three months after I’d promised myself I’d never download another dating app, I matched with a man who seemed to understand loneliness like I did.

Our first conversation was about music. He loved indie bands I’d never heard of and introduced me to a song called “Ghost of You” by Mimi Bay. I told him the lyrics made me ache, and he said that was the point. We chatted until 2 a.m. about dreams, fears, the city, and how people pretend not to care when they’re actually breaking. It felt real, which was something I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Our first date was at a quiet café with plants hanging from the ceiling and worn leather chairs that smelled like stories. He brought me sunflowers—“Not roses, too cliché,” he said—and asked thoughtful questions that made me feel seen. I remember thinking, Maybe this is what healing looks like. Maybe I’ve finally found something true.

For six weeks, we built a rhythm. Late-night phone calls, morning texts that made me smile before coffee, long walks with no destination. He made me playlists, and I wrote him poems. We weren’t official, but there was something sacred in the in-between. I stopped wondering who else he was texting. I stopped checking his Instagram likes. I trusted him, not because he asked me to, but because something in me whispered that I could.

Until the whisper turned into silence.

It started with delayed replies. Then missed calls. Then one weekend, nothing. I told myself he was just busy. Maybe he was sick. Maybe something came up. I sent a casual “Hey, hope you’re okay” message. No response. A day passed. Then another. I checked my phone obsessively, convincing myself I’d just missed a notification. I hadn’t.

When I finally worked up the courage to call him, it went straight to voicemail. I opened Instagram to see if he’d posted anything. I was met with: User not found. I checked again. And again. Then I tried Facebook. Gone. Twitter. Gone. WhatsApp? Blocked.

That was how I learned I’d been ghosted. Not just ghosted—erased. Like our connection had never existed.

The pain wasn’t cinematic. It was quiet and ugly. It was scrolling through old messages just to see if I’d imagined the tenderness. It was listening to his playlists and wondering which songs were lies. It was crying in the shower so my roommates wouldn’t hear. It was the shame of telling friends, “I don’t know what happened.”

People say ghosting is part of modern dating. That we’ve become so desensitized, so afraid of confrontation, we treat hearts like apps—open, swipe, close, delete. But what they don’t talk about is the after. The part where your mind keeps trying to rewrite the ending, hoping for closure that will never come.

I tried to move on. I dated other people. I deleted and re-downloaded the same app three times. I laughed at the idea of love over brunch, drank wine like it was medicine, and blocked his number just to feel like I had control. But nothing filled the space he left behind—not because he was irreplaceable, but because he vanished without goodbye.

And still, part of me hoped for a message. Even one that said, “Sorry.” Something to explain why someone who held my hand like a promise could disappear like a ghost.

But that message never came.

Instead, healing came slowly. Not in a dramatic, Instagram-quote kind of way, but in small, everyday choices. Choosing not to check his social media, even from a friend’s account. Choosing to delete the playlist. Choosing to unfollow pain like it was a bad habit. I started therapy. I journaled. I took walks alone. I learned to love the sound of my own silence again.

One day, months later, I walked past the café where we first met. The same plants still hung from the ceiling. The same old chairs still told stories. But I didn’t go in. I didn’t need to. Because something in me had shifted—I wasn’t looking for him in places anymore.

I won’t lie and say I’m completely over it. Some wounds don’t scar neatly. But I no longer measure my worth by someone else’s ability to stay. I no longer see ghosting as a reflection of me. I see it as a reflection of him—his fear, his cowardice, his unfinished story.

Because love, real love, doesn’t vanish when it gets hard. It doesn’t block and disappear. It stays. It talks. It explains. And even if it ends, it ends with dignity.

So yes, I was ghosted. I was blocked. And I’m still healing.

But I’m also still here. Still loving. Still hoping. Still choosing to believe that next time, I won’t be left behind like a forgotten Wednesday.