The Ex He Can't Erase

Morning one. I woke up and didn't stalk my ex's socials. Six months postbreakup, the withdrawal finally snapped. I nuked every single burner account. Closure hit suddenly.

No need to post anything to prove I moved on. But the dead silence broke Bennett. His face spammed my story viewers. Over and over. Finally, my screen lit up with his call. "Fallon.

I regret it." Chapter 1 For the first three months after the split, I'd crank my phone volume to the max before bed. Terrified I'd miss his call.

I visualized the scenario a thousand times. How I'd answer with ice in my veins. How I'd listen to him beg. How I'd drop a casual "Oh, really?" before hanging up.

I played that movie in my head fifty times over. It was a sick little hit of dopamine every single time. I craved the sound of his regret.

But staring at his name flashing on my screen right now? My chest felt hollow. Nothing. It hit me then. When you finally move on, the anger goes right with it.

The call wasn't exactly a shock. His username had been haunting my notifications for weeks. Breadcrumbing. But I didn't have the energy to decode his games anymore.

Over the last three years of our onandoff toxicity, we had a rhythm. I would pull the plug, and he would reel me back in.

To everyone else, he was the loyal guy who swatted away models during our breaks just to wait for me. A walking green flag. But the reality behind closed doors? It was suffocating.

Bennett was… complicated. He played the ultimate devoted boyfriend, but underneath, the man operated on his own rigid terms. His rule was simple.

What he wanted to give, he gave freely. What he didn't want to give? You could bleed for it, and he still wouldn't budge. Once, my fever spiked to 101.

I texted him that I felt like death. "I'm on my way," he shot back instantly. Thirty minutes later, he showed up at my door, armed with meds and soup. He spoonfed me.

Watched over me all night. But then there was the other side of him. We'd get into a fight. I'd ignore his first call, and he would never dial twice. Silence.

A week of icecold radio silence later, he'd show up on my porch. A Cartier watch. A soldout Birkin. Firstclass tickets to that country I randomly mentioned on TikTok.

He'd stroll in, dropping thousands of dollars, acting like nothing happened. Back to his polished, attentive self.

But the second I tried to actually talk about the fight? "Fallon," he'd say, his voice eerily calm. "I didn't come over to keep arguing." He gave me everything—as long as it was convenient for him.

Bennett coasted through life. It was enviable. Born with a silver spoon, he never had to fight for a single thing. So if something required actual emotional labor? He opted out.

It wasn't arrogance. He was just fundamentally lazy. He poured money and time into me, but he refused to put an ounce of effort into fixing our cracks.

He'd just let me drown in my own head. Wait it out until the anger fizzled, until I couldn't even remember what sparked the fight.

Eventually, the silent treatment became our default setting. Our final fight.

I spent the entire dinner party glaring at my phone screen, biting my tongue until we finally got into his car. "Can you stop doing that?" I snapped. He didn't reply.

Just leaned over and tapped the button to turn on my heated seat. "I'm talking to you, Bennett." "I hear you." He lifted his eyes.

He stared back at me with that unsettling, flat calmness. "But what do you want me to say? 'I'm sorry, I was wrong'? You'd call me insincere. 'I don't see the issue'?

You'd just get madder. So what exactly am I supposed to say?" The breath was punched out of my lungs. I just stared at him. "We both know we don't see eye to eye on this.

Talking about it guarantees a fight.

So why talk?" He reached across my lap, pulling the seatbelt over my chest and clicking it into place. "If you don't have anything productive to say, let's just keep quiet until you sort yourself out." Chapter 2 I sat alone in the living room until 3:00 AM.

No text from Bennett. Nothing. Three days later, he materialized at my door holding a teal Tiffany box, acting like the iceout never happened. "Hungry?

Let's grab sushi." I snatched the velvet box. Barely two sentences later, the screaming match ignited again. Bennett froze up.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, dragging in a harsh breath. "Maybe we should just call it." The words felt like a gut punch. Shocking, yet somehow predictable.

I was stubborn to a fault in relationships. Even if my chest caved in with regret, I refused to beg.

If a guy took one step back, I sprinted a hundred yards in the opposite direction. "Fine," I snapped. He didn't flinch. A second later, my phone buzzed.

A $30,000 bank alert popped up on my screen. "What the hell is this?" His face remained a blank, unreadable mask. "Just a parting gift.

Even when things end, I don't like owing my partner. Don't overthink it. I'd do the same for anyone." He turned on his heel and walked out.

A clean, surgical exit. "Don't come crawling back to me crying," I cursed him in my head, my nails digging into my palms.

I spent that night acting like a total psycho, overthinking every word, every little detail of our breakup. Good. He was the one who pulled the trigger. He said the cruel things.

It gave me the moral high ground. Armed with that leverage, I convinced myself his guilt would eat him alive eventually.

Before I fell asleep, I anchored myself to one absolute certainty: he would come back. Day two. He scrubbed his Instagram profile picture. Day three. He swapped his Twitter header.

My face vanished, replaced by a picture of a stray cat. Day four. A screenshot from a mutual friend landed in my iMessage.

Someone had commented on Bennett's latest post. "You single now, bro?" Bennett's reply: "Yeah." I stared at that single word until my vision blurred.

During our past breaks, he kept his mouth shut online. Never this public. My phone chimed. Another screenshot. Someone dragged him out.

The photo captured the amber haze of a dimly lit lounge. Bennett lounged in a leather booth. A girl pressed in close beside him. Daphne.

Her shoulderlength hair fell in soft waves framing a delicate profile. He dipped his head to catch her words, a faint smirk playing on his lips. I knew that look.

It was the exact same hypnotic gaze he used to reel me in three years ago. I slammed the phone facedown on the granite counter. I stalked to the kitchen.

Chugged a glass of ice water. The glass rattled against my teeth. I realized my hands were shaking. That was the exact second all the warmth drained from the room.

He was actually done. The insomnia started that night. I fell into a toxic cycle of posting cryptic, desperate Instagram stories at 2:00 AM, only to delete them before sunrise.

Terrified he'd see them. Paralyzed by the thought that he wouldn't. January hit. My birthday. A friend cashed in a favor and rented out an underground speakeasy.

I knew exactly what she was doing. She leaked the venue to Bennett's inner circle. I let her. I waited from eight until ten. We lit the candles three separate times.

Faked smiles for the flash. Blew them out. Sliced the cake. Downed four rounds of tequila shots. The door never opened.

My friend slipped into the hallway, her hand cupping her phone. I caught the harsh whisper. "Bennett, it's Fallon's birthday.

You seriously aren't showing up?" I kept my eyes glued to my plate, mashing a piece of red velvet with my silver fork.

She slid back into the booth minutes later, her smile tight and pitying. "He said he's tied up with business. But he paid for a live band.

They're loading in now." I offered a stiff nod. Not a single word. Chapter 3 The indie band was local, underground, and notoriously hard to book.

I mentioned them to Bennett exactly once. He had just grunted. I thought he hadn't even processed it. Four songs in, I tapped out.

I hugged my friends goodbye and slid into the back of an Uber. Gridlock hit hard on Madison Avenue. I stared blankly out the tinted window.

The neon lights from the Gucci storefront bled onto the wet pavement. Two figures stood framed against the glass. I knew the guy.

Four months postbreakup, and he was still wearing the charcoal wool overcoat I picked out for him. I knew the girl, too. Daphne. The shoulderlength hair from the photo.

She tilted her head back, laughing at something he said. His fingers gripped two heavy shopping bags. His expression was blank. Bennett loathed errands.

He practically never stepped foot in a mall with me. The reality crashed down on me. It was really over.

The driver laid on the horn. "Traffic's moving." "Drive," I said, wrenching my gaze away. January 16th. The day after my birthday. 7:23 AM. I woke up. I didn't lunge for my phone.

I just lay there in the tangled sheets for three minutes, staring at the ceiling. Day 180. The first time I opened my eyes and his face wasn't the very first thing in my head.

Just a few taps, clearing out a camera roll full of expired memories without a second thought. I tried to back out of the blind date.

My coworker begged, claiming it would make her look bad if I flaked. Fine. We met at an upscale craft BBQ joint. I walked in five minutes early. He was already sitting in a booth.

He stood up. His eyes raked over me, top to bottom. "You look way better than your pictures," he smirked. A massive red flag.

I frowned and slid into the booth, ignoring the comment. He launched into his pitch. Ivy League grad. Tech bro. Listed off his real estate portfolio and the make of his Tesla.

He rattled it off like a rehearsed resume. I nodded along, offering a flat "Mhm" every few minutes. Mentally calculating the fastest escape route. The brisket arrived.

He abruptly shifted gears. "So, I heard about your ex.

The guy from the Bennett family?" My fork froze in midair. "Crossed paths a few times," he said casually, waving a hand. "The guy is nothing special.

Trust fund kid with zero drive. You know he wanted to be an artist? His parents said no, and he just rolled over. Classic spineless rich boy.

Can't even make his own choices." I said nothing. He took my silence as an invitation to keep digging. "Word is, he's a notorious player anyway. Pumps and dumps.

You dodged a bullet." "Have you actually met him?" I dropped my fork onto the plate. The clatter cut through the noise of the restaurant.

He blinked, caught off guard. "Have you ever actually stood in the same room as Bennett?" I demanded.

The smugness melted off his face. "Well… no, but everyone in the scene knows—" "So you haven't.

Why are you sitting here trashing a man you've never even met?" I leveled a glare at him.

He flushed defensively, forcing a laugh. "Hey, I'm just taking your side here." "Don't," I snapped. "He treated me well. Our breakup is strictly between us.

It has absolutely nothing to do with outsiders. And that story about his painting? I know the truth.

He quit because he didn't want it badly enough, not because his parents forced him.

He doesn't blame them, and you don't need to do it for him." I locked eyes with him, my voice turning to ice. "Every single word that just came out of your mouth was a lie." Chapter 4 The muscles in his jaw locked.

He waved a dismissive hand. "Alright, fine.

If you're going to defend the guy so hard, why did he dump you?" "Him treating me well and our relationship ending aren't mutually exclusive," I shot back.

But I knew the concept would fly right over his head. Guys like him operated in stark black and white. You were either the perfect boyfriend, or a toxic piece of trash.

But that wasn't reality. Three years with Bennett taught me exactly who he was. He lacked the emotional bandwidth to maintain a real connection, but he was never a player.

A player gaslights you. Uses you. Throws you away. Bennett actually wanted to take care of me. We just possessed fundamental flaws we couldn't fix.

He stared at me, at a loss for words.

I picked up my fork and stabbed a glazed burnt end. "You know nothing, yet you've been running your mouth all night." A dark flush crept up his neck.

He forced out a tight, ugly laugh. "Fine. My bad. But don't blame me for stating the obvious.

Given your situation, people are going to talk." A harsh laugh scraped my throat. "What situation exactly?" His smile twisted into something nasty. "Six months postbreakup and you're still caping for the guy.

Is the obsession that deep? Or do you just have a thing for trust funds?" I kept my mouth shut. He took my silence as a victory.

He leaned back, his posture dripping with arrogance. "Let me be brutally honest. With your background, you should be thrilled to land a guy like me. Bennett was just having fun.

Did you actually think a guy from his tax bracket was going to put a ring on it?" "You're really bitter, aren't you?" He blinked, derailed midrant. "What?" "Bennett," I said flatly. "You've got a massive chip on your shoulder about him." The smugness wiped clean off his face. "You didn't bring him up to defend me." I locked eyes with him, refusing to let him look away. "You brought him up to soothe your own ego." "You despise guys like him.

Generational wealth. Never had to hustle.

Gets whatever he wants on a silver platter." "Meanwhile, you had to grind through college, bleed for every promotion, and hoard your pennies just to finance a Tesla.

You finally clawed your way up, and it kills you that he was born at a finish line you'll never cross." His jaw practically hit the table. "So you sit in a barbecue joint, across from someone who actually knows him, and trash his name.

You call him a trustfund baby. A loser. A player.

Tell me, did that make you feel like a bigger man?" "What the fuck did you just say to me?" "Did I stutter?" I leaned forward. "That entire resume dump you forced on me earlier.

The Ivy League degree, the real estate, the car. I didn't ask a single question. You shoved it down my throat.

You're obsessed with status because you can't stomach the fact that Bennett holds all of it without even trying." A dark, ugly red mottled his cheeks. "I've met a million guys exactly like you." I snatched my designer bag off the leather seat. "You can't infiltrate the inner circle, so you stand outside and throw rocks at the glass.

Tearing him down is the only way you feel superior." I stood up.

He shot up too, his mouth working silently, completely emasculated. "I'll cover the check." I dropped a hundreddollar bill on the table. "I know how hard you worked for that gas money." I spun on my heel and headed for the exit.

His venomous shout chased me toward the door. "Who the hell do you think you are? You're nothing but his sloppy seconds!

Acting like some damn prize when he already threw you in the trash!" The heavy wooden door swung open. Bennett stood in the frame. Chapter 5