Will My Ex Ever Come Back to Me?

1:38 a.m. I wrote the question and immediately hated how small it made me look: will my ex ever come back to me? The kettle clicked once and then went quiet. I had been standing in the kitchen with one sock on, scrolling through an old photo where my hair looked better than my judgment. I kept zooming in on his hand on my shoulder, as if the angle of his fingers could testify in court.

The honest part is this: I did not only want him back. I wanted the version of myself who existed before the ending. The one who did not know the exact shape of his silence. The one who still left a toothbrush at his place without treating it like a hostage negotiation. I miss her too, which is inconvenient because she was me, just less informed.

Judgment showed up and annoyed me. It always sounds so grand, like trumpets and resurrection, but tonight it felt more like opening the junk drawer and finding the thing I had been pretending was lost. If he came back, what would actually return? His body? His apologies? The same weird habit of disappearing when things got emotionally unprofitable?

Six of Cups made me softer for about six minutes. I thought about the hoodie still at his apartment, the one with the stretched sleeve. I also thought about the night we ate noodles from the same bowl because both of us were too tired to wash another dish. Memory is rude that way. It edits out the mold in the corner and leaves the warm light.

By 2:04 a.m. I had written three lists: what I missed, what hurt, and what would have to be different. The third list was embarrassingly practical. Answer messages. Tell the truth earlier. Stop making me guess. Stop making me feel dramatic for reacting to missing information. Not exactly moonlit romance. More like relationship plumbing.

The World sat there like a closed door with good manners. Maybe the chapter ended. Maybe it ended badly. Maybe it ended because neither of us knew how to maintain the room after the first flowers died. I wanted the card to say he would return. It seemed more interested in whether I had learned how not to rebuild the same hallway.

I almost texted him. The message said, "Do you ever think about us?" Then I deleted it because I knew I was not asking for information. I was asking him to make the last few months less humiliating. That is too much work for a text bubble. Even I know that, unfortunately.

Temperance felt boring in the way useful things are boring. Time. Water. Sleep. A body that needs to stop refreshing pain like a page that failed to load. I hate when the wise answer is basically maintenance. I wanted lightning. I got hydration and emotional pacing.

At 2:31 a.m. I put the cards back but left Judgment out. I do not know if he will come back. I know I do not want to become a front desk for old behavior. If he knocks, I need a different door policy. I wrote that down, then crossed out 'door policy' because it sounded like a hotel.

I turned the phone face down. The kettle still had not boiled.