Before I dive back into this circus so you can see the full tragicomedy of how we landed here and how I plan to crawl forward, let me set the stage. Today marks the grand premiere of “Moving On: The Detox Edition.” Spoiler Alert: I’ve still got emotional baggage to unpack—because surprise, surprise, Monday hit me like a ton of bricks wrapped in receipts! He’s just not feeling me anymore.
Not a slow fade. Not a gentle drift. Just a full-on emotional eviction notice I didn’t see coming, even though the signs were neon.

Nope, no reciprocity in sight. And you know what? I’m convinced someone else’s caught his eye because Mr. Houdini keeps pulling disappearing acts like he’s training for the Olympics. But if you ask him, it’s all smoke and mirrors. Boy, please! Who exactly are you trying to fool here? But hey, I digress.

After radio silence since Friday—which was weird for him, considering he usually pops up like a bad Wi-Fi signal—I started spiraling. Not the dramatic kind, just the quiet insomnia kind where your brain plays reruns of every red flag you tried to paint green. I knew he was fine. I knew. But the way I’m wired? I still needed confirmation that he hadn’t been abducted by aliens or his own ego.

He hadn’t come home. And yes, I say home loosely—he treats this place like a hotel lobby he occasionally graces with his presence. My daughters and I had to leave early Monday morning for her rheumatologist appointment in Orlando. Still no sign of him. I called. I texted. I even considered smoke signals. Nothing.

Then, around 8 a.m., he finally replies: “I’m good.”
No apology. No explanation. Just vibes.

That’s when the fog lifted. I saw things I’d already seen, but this time I didn’t squint. I still loved him, sure. But I also realized I was loving someone who treats concern like clinginess and silence like power. And that? That’s the kind of peace I’m no longer negotiating.

Remember all those parties his friends threw? He never once invited me. Our outings? No hand-holding because, get this, his hands were “too sweaty.” Yeah, heartbreaker, that’s real romantic. Family get-togethers? He’d be off in a corner, glued to his phone like it was his lifeline, completely ignoring the music, the dancing, me—basically treating me like a background prop. And suddenly, I see it crystal clear: this relationship was a one-woman show starring me. Just like now. Any connection we have? It’s all me pushing the cart uphill. My brilliant plan to be “friends” in the end? Joke’s on me because he treats me like a leech, someone to shake off ASAP. Like I never mattered, like I’m a bad habit he’s desperate to kick.

So today, the official Heartbreaker Detox begins. No more calls or texts unless it’s about the freaking bills or the house. I’m done giving a damn about his whereabouts or who he’s playing house with now. I’m matching his energy—cold, indifferent, and unapologetically done. Let’s see if the “friends” he’s chosen can fill the void I once filled. Because once he’s officially out, I’m done being a friend to someone who never tried to be mine. His “friendship” is just a chore he drags his feet over, and I’m not signing up for that mess anymore. This is the new normal until he finds a reason to change—or doesn’t. Either way, I’m out.