The Planet Where Everyone’s Your Ex

It all started with a smoothie and a minor asteroid field.

I should have known not to fly after guzzling a Strawberry Spirulina Disaster from Galaxy Smoothiez™, but I was late for a cargo run and figured: “What’s the worst that could happen?” Spoiler: total ship failure, emergency landing, and stumbling into the single weirdest planet I’ve ever encountered.

The atmosphere was breathable. Gravity, tolerable. Landscape, suspiciously romantic: violet skies, soft grass, and moons that looked like they’d been hand-painted by someone who just went through a bad breakup.

Which felt… familiar.

The First Encounter

I’d barely made it twenty paces from the smoldering wreckage of my shuttle when I saw her.

“Maya?” I blinked. “From college?”

She was sitting on a moss-covered bench, eating a sandwich and scrolling through something that looked suspiciously like SpaceInstagram.

She looked up, unfazed. “Wow. You’re here too?”

“Wait… what do you mean ‘too’? Where are we?”

She gestured lazily at the shimmering horizon. “Oh, this is Breakup-4. It’s sort of a weird gravitational trap planet. Scans your subconscious or something. Populates itself with… well… everyone you’ve ever dated.”

My mouth hung open.

She shrugged. “Honestly, I’ve seen weirder.”

The Café of Emotional Regret

Turns out, Breakup-4 has a charming little café called The Closure Cup, where every ex you’ve ever had somehow gathers to sip artisan teas, read heavy books, and pretend they’re not judging you.

That’s where I ran into Caleb — high school sweetheart and king of performative poetry — who instantly said:

“Oh. You still blink unevenly when you’re nervous. That used to drive me insane.”

Cool. Good to see nothing’s changed.

I tried to order a coffee, but the barista was Lena, who I dated during my chaotic Mars semester. She asked if I still ghost people emotionally even while physically present. Then she handed me a decaf with no explanation.

You Can’t Escape Until You… What?

At some point, a helpful (?) holographic guide popped up from a conveniently-placed crystal boulder.

“Welcome to Breakup-4,” it chirped. “To leave the planet, you must achieve full emotional closure with at least 80% of your past partners.”

“Wait,” I said, eyes wide. “That’s so many people. Do flings count?”

The hologram twitched. “All emotionally impactful entanglements are eligible. That includes: romantic partners, situationships, brief but intense flirtations, and anyone you drunkenly slow danced with at weddings.”

I screamed internally.

Group Therapy (With Snacks)

Out of ideas and dignity, I attended one of the planet’s many “Heart-Healing Circles.” It was held in a meadow and facilitated by Juno, my astrology-obsessed ex who once broke up with me because Mercury went retrograde.

Everyone sat on blankets, sipping lavender lemonade and holding crystals. We took turns sharing “what we learned” from each other.

Juno went first.

“I learned that not everything broken needs to be fixed. Especially him.” She didn’t look at me, but everyone felt the burn.

When it was my turn, I said, “I learned that maybe I wasn’t the problem in every relationship. Just… most of them.”

There was awkward clapping. Someone handed me a muffin.

The One Who Got Away (And Stayed)

Then came Iris. The Ex.

Not the “Oops-we-were-too-young” kind of ex or the “what even was that” kind.

No — Iris was the one I thought I’d marry. The one who made Sunday mornings sacred and silence feel like music.

She found me sitting by a glowing lake full of reflective jellyfish.

“You always shut down when things get too real,” she said gently, sitting beside me.

I sighed. “I still don’t know how to fix that.”

“You don’t fix it,” she said. “You notice it. That’s the difference.”

It wasn’t closure. Not yet. But it was the first time I didn’t flinch from honesty.

Emotional Passport: Stamped

Over the next few days (or weeks — time is weird here), I had tea with old lovers, awkward hugs with people I forgot I hurt, and one very surreal karaoke duet with a woman I only dated for two weeks in an escape pod.

I cried once. Laughed more than I expected. Learned that I apologized too late, too often.

And then one morning, as I packed my bag with alien fruit and leftover clarity, the hologram reappeared.

“Congratulations. You have achieved sufficient emotional closure. You may now exit Breakup-4.”

Final Words (That Actually Worked)

As I boarded a rescue shuttle summoned by the planet’s weird but surprisingly kind A.I. concierge, Iris waved goodbye.

“You’re gonna do better next time,” she said. “I know you will.”

“I hope so,” I said, meaning it for the first time in years.

The shuttle lifted. The planet faded. I checked my communicator.

No signal. But my chest was lighter.

Epilogue: Dating Again?

I matched with someone on a dating app called StarCrush the day after I left Breakup-4.

Her name’s Eleni. She’s into mushroom foraging and interplanetary stand-up comedy.

She asked: “What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever been?”

I smiled.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Thanks for reading! If you’ve ever wished for closure, a second chance, or just a planet full of awkward memories, maybe you’re not as alone as you think.