I swear I wasn’t even looking for anything. I just wanted to do something sweet.
That morning, I made banana-strawberry pancakes with a little cinnamon whipped butter—his favorite. I even put it all on the nice plates and brought coffee to the table. He was already sitting there scrolling on his phone, totally zoned out.
I said, “Morning, babe,” and he barely glanced up. Just kind of muttered, “Mmhmm.” No smile. No kiss. Not even a “thanks” when I set the plate down in front of him.
Okay. Fine. Maybe he was tired. Or stressed. I let it go.
But then—literally the moment I sat across from him—his whole vibe changed. I saw him glance at his screen, then at me, then he flipped the phone face-down and slid it next to his leg, under the table. Like… sneaky sneaky. I wasn’t imagining it.
I asked him if something was wrong. He just shook his head and shoved a bite in his mouth, chewing like it was his job. His eyes never met mine. Not once.
So yeah, my stomach started turning. Because I’ve seen him like that before… a long time ago… right before I found those DMs on Instagram.
But it’s been a year since we worked through that. Or at least I thought we worked through it. I thought we were in a better place. I mean, I’m making him pancakes. We’re trying.
So I tried again. I said, “Everything okay?”
He looked up, finally. “Yeah. Why?”
That’s when his phone buzzed again. And again. He didn’t move. Didn’t check it.
And without even thinking, I reached across the table, picked it up—face down, still warm in my hand—and as I turned it over…
I saw her name.
Not a random girl. Not some stranger. No. It was Carla. His ex.
The same Carla who once called me crying at 2 a.m., saying he told her he wasn’t really over her. The Carla he swore he blocked. Swore he hadn’t seen in over a year.
My heart felt like it dropped into my stomach and exploded into a million pieces.
Three missed messages. All from her. I didn’t open them. I didn’t need to. The preview was enough. The last one said, “Are you coming by before or after she leaves for work?”
He tried to grab the phone from me, but I stood up. Not yelling. Just… quiet. That scary kind of quiet where you’re too stunned to cry.
“What is this?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Just buried his face in his hands.
“Are you cheating on me again?” My voice cracked on the last word.
Still nothing. Just silence. It made me feel small. Like I wasn’t even worth an answer.
So I left. Grabbed my bag, keys, no shoes. Walked out the door and just kept walking.
I ended up at my sister’s place. Didn’t tell her much, just enough to crash on her couch and pretend like I was fine. She didn’t push. Just made tea and handed me a blanket.
The next day, I went back. Not to talk. Just to grab my things. But the moment I opened the door, there he was. Sitting on the floor like a lost kid.
He stood up fast, talking too much, too fast. “It’s not what you think. She messaged me first. I didn’t reply at first. I swear. But then I just wanted to— I don’t know. I got curious. I missed—”
I held up my hand. “Stop.”
And for once, he did.
“I don’t care why you did it. You made a choice. Again. And now I’m making mine.”
That was the first time I truly walked away from him.
And it hurt. Oh, God, it hurt.
Because love doesn’t turn off just because someone breaks your trust. That’s the messed-up part. I still loved him. But I loved myself more.
The next few weeks were a blur. I cried on the train. At work. In the frozen food aisle. I deleted our photos. Then re-downloaded them. Then deleted again.
But something funny started happening.
I started sleeping better. I started eating real meals. I painted my nails for the first time in months. One evening, I walked past a mirror and realized I looked… lighter. Like something heavy had finally been put down.
One afternoon, I got a call from Carla. Yeah. Her.
At first, I didn’t pick up. But she texted: “It’s not what you think. Please talk to me.”
Against my better judgment, I answered.
She sounded nervous. Said she didn’t know he was still with me. That he told her we had broken up months ago. That they only met for coffee, nothing physical happened—but he made it sound like he was single and just figuring himself out.
I asked her, “Why would you believe that?”
She sighed. “Because I wanted to. I wanted it to be true.”
We talked for almost an hour. Not angry. Just… real.
By the end, I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
A week later, I saw him in the grocery store. He looked thinner. Tired. The way he glanced at me was different. Not cocky. Not defensive. Just hollow.
He walked up, asked if he could talk. I said no. Not because I was mad. But because I was done.
That night, I journaled for the first time in ages. I wrote:
“I walked in with pancakes, thinking love would be enough. But it turns out, love isn’t always about how much you give. Sometimes it’s about knowing when to stop giving to the wrong person.”
It didn’t happen overnight, but slowly, I started saying yes to things I used to say no to. I joined a pottery class. Took a solo trip to Lisbon. Said yes to brunch invites instead of making excuses.
Then, in the most unexpected way, I met someone.
His name was Radu. He was soft-spoken, always laughed with his eyes, and asked real questions—like “What’s your favorite childhood memory?” or “What song do you listen to when you’re sad?”
I wasn’t looking for anything serious. But he was patient. Never pushed. Just showed up.
One evening, after dinner, we sat on his couch and I told him everything. Not the sugar-coated version. The raw stuff. About the pancakes. The messages. The way it broke me.
He didn’t flinch. Just held my hand and said, “You didn’t deserve that. But you do deserve love. Real love. The kind that doesn’t hide its phone.”
That moment cracked something open in me.
For the first time in a long time, I believed it.
The twist? Months later, I ran into Carla again. But this time, she was glowing. She had started therapy. Quit her draining job. She even launched a small online bakery.
She hugged me. Told me, “Losing him was the best thing that happened to me. For both of us, maybe.”
And you know what? She was right.
Sometimes the people who hurt us the most are also the ones who unintentionally push us toward the life we’re actually meant for.
Now, every time I make pancakes, I smile. Not because I miss him—but because I remember the girl who walked in that morning, full of love, and I honor her by never settling again.
So here’s what I learned:
If someone hides their phone when you’re handing them breakfast, they’re hiding more than just a screen. And if your gut whispers, “Something’s off,”—listen. Not because you want to catch them. But because you want to catch yourself before you fall too deep.
Love isn’t about grand gestures. It’s in the little things. Like honesty. Eye contact. Pancakes with no secrets.
And sometimes, walking away is the most loving thing you can do—for them and for yourself.
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