21/08/2025
Sharing another 🔥 Truth Bomb 👑
for Women, with Love
When Your Ex Comes Calling 🌟
I know how quickly it happens.
The way a message
can undo weeks,
months, or even years,
of healing.
You’re not weak.
You’re not foolish.
You’re human.
And there’s a reason
your body lights up
before your mind
can catch up.
Your stomach still flips
when his name
lights up your phone.
That rush that comes
before the reasoning,
the way hope barrels in
before the guardrails are up.
You say you’ve moved on,
that you know better —
but there’s a part of you
that still wants to believe.
Not because you’re weak.
Not because you’ve
forgotten the ending.
But because you remember
how it once felt,
to be wanted like that.
And you’ve been waiting,
deep down,
for someone to want you
that way again.
And for him?
It starts with a feeling
he can’t name.
A kind of hungry,
low-level restlessness.
Boredom in his bones,
dressed up as
“just a weird week.”
He looks around his life
and it feels... muted.
His relationship is fine.
Stable. Familiar.
But flat.
No spark.
No chaos.
No fun.
No hit.
He doesn’t want to talk about it,
that would require vulnerability.
It’s much easier to scroll,
check old threads.
Revisit someone who
once made him feel full.
And that’s when he thinks of you.
The ex.
The fire.
The wild one.
He doesn’t remember the hurt.
He remembers how alive
he felt in your company.
He remembers being wanted.
Seen.
Reflected as someone
with depth.
A man worth feeling for.
In his current life,
he is dulled.
In yours, he was electric.
So he tells himself
it won’t hurt to reach out.
Say hello.
Just a catch-up.
A quick check-in.
But this is not curiosity.
It’s consumption.
And he doesn’t even know it.
He sends a message.
Simple. Harmless.
Or so he tells himself.
“Hey. Just saw something
that reminded me of you.”
Or
“Been thinking about you.
Hope you’re okay?”
Followed by…
“What the f**k
happened to us???” 😏🥺😔
To him, it’s just a tap.
But to her, it’s a quake.
Because she’s been rebuilding.
Stitching herself back together.
Making peace with how it ended.
Undoing the wiring that said
his absence was her fault.
And now here he is.
In her inbox.
Breathing life into the ghost.
Her stomach flips.
Her body remembers
what her mind
has tried to forget.
She re-reads the message.
Tells herself
it’s probably nothing —
but part of her hopes
it’s everything.
Maybe he’s realised?
Maybe he’s ready?
Maybe he’s back for real?
But she doesn’t know yet
that this isn’t about her.
It’s about himself —
and how hollow he feels.
He’s looking for a mirror.
She just happens to be one.
There is a moment —
a sacred,
split-second fork
in the road.
She can choose silence.
Hold her boundary.
Let the fantasy rise
and fall like a wave
without drowning in it.
Or… She can reply.
And that is the quietest form
of opening the door.
At first, it’s just a crack —
a flicker of connection.
A few safe words dressed
as polite catching up.
But it doesn’t stay small.
The crack widens into a thread,
the thread into a cord,
the cord into a pull
she feels in her chest.
One message
becomes a memory.
A memory
becomes a maybe.
And before she realises it,
she’s leaning in again —
towards a man
who never
actually turned back.
They talk.
They laugh.
There’s a current,
a charge —
old, dangerous.
She starts to imagine.
He lets her.
But he does not change his life.
He doesn’t leave his partner.
He doesn’t uproot a thing.
He doesn’t choose her.
Because he was never
offering a future —
he was borrowing a feeling.
And when he’s fed enough,
when he’s filled the gaps
with her softness,
her fire,
her presence —
He will disappear,
fading back into
the life he never left.
And she is left
with the ache of almost.
The shame of self-betrayal.
The sting of being
used to feel good.
The grief of being
needed but not loved.
And worst of all —
the feeling that
maybe she let it happen.
Because she wanted to believe.
Because hope is hard to smother.
But this is not love.
This is nostalgia weaponised.
This is a man hungry for himself,
reaching back to the last place
he remembers feeling whole —
not to stay,
but to snack.
And she becomes the meal.
Not the choice.
Not the commitment.
Just the reminder
of a better version of himself.
So the next time
the message arrives —
the casual tap:
“just thinking about you…”
the “what if” wrapped
in false tenderness —
Pause.
Remember:
If he was ready,
you wouldn’t be
getting a maybe.
You’d be getting a door.
A path. A choice.
Not crumbs.
Not echoes.
Not a fleeting fantasy
to soothe his boredom.
You are not here
to be the spark
he comes to steal
while keeping his feet
in someone else’s life.
You are not a memory lane.
You are a woman.
And your love deserves
commitment,
not pit stops.
But let’s be honest.
He knows exactly
where your soft spots are.
He knows you remember
the way it once felt.
He knows how intoxicating
his attention can be —
even in fragments.
He knows you might still ache.
And you?
You know how to over-feel
and under-protect.
You know how to create
intimacy out of almost.
You know how to find
poetry in pain,
and make it mean
more than it does.
You are not stupid.
You are not weak.
You are a Woman.
And you wanted
it to be real —
so it’s hard
to not want that door
to crack open again.
But listen...
A message is not a reckoning.
A “hey” is not a return.
A memory is not a map.
And a man who doesn’t
disrupt his own life
to reach you
has no business
being inside yours.
He isn’t back
to build something.
He’s back to
borrow your oxygen.
Because something
in him is collapsing,
and you were
once the rescue.
But that rescue
cost you everything.
And now, here you are —
again.
Heart fluttering.
Hoping against knowing.
Because there’s a part of you
that still thinks
maybe you were
the one that got away.
Maybe he’s come back
because he finally sees.
Maybe this time he’ll stay.
But that’s not
what’s happening.
This is not recognition.
This is self-soothing —
for him.
Not reconnection —
for you.
He is not here for your life.
He is here to borrow your light.
And when he
goes quiet again —
because he will —
and you know it,
he’ll say
it didn’t mean anything.
That he was just
reaching out.
You misunderstood.
You got carried away
(as usual).
And you’ll be left holding
the sharp end
of the fantasy.
The taste of what
you used to be.
The ache of being
almost chosen — again.
Here’s the most dangerous part:
You’ll blame yourself.
For responding.
For hoping.
For forgetting
that you’ve
already survived
him once.
So let’s remember together:
You are not a f**king buffet
for a man who
cannot feed himself.
You are not a temporary
fix for someone
too afraid to burn it all down
and choose truth.
So when the
message comes —
wrapped in nostalgia,
that lights your body up
Like maybe this time —
Pause. Breathe slowly.
Say nothing.
Light a candle for the girl
who still aches
to be chosen.
Then blow it out,
because you are already whole.
Because this is
not your door
to walk through.
Because you are not
a memory lane,
Nor the flame
he comes to steal
or the stopgap
between his boredom
and his bravery.
You are a woman
with a choice.
And that choice
isn’t just about
whether to answer.
It’s about whether
to abandon yourself —
and whether you’ll be
part of abandoning her.
Because somewhere,
there is a woman
who doesn’t know
you’re in the picture.
A woman - you -
who thinks
she’s rebuilding
something with him.
A woman - you -
who believes
the version of her
he’s fed you.
A woman who
doesn’t know
he’s still grazing
in past fields.
She may not
be your friend.
You may not
even like her.
You may believe she
“doesn’t get him”
like you do.
But she is not
the enemy.
She is the
collateral damage
of his cowardice.
And you —
you get to choose
whether you become
part of her harm
or part of the healing
of all women.
You get to choose
whether you say
yes to a man
who wants both
stability and spark,
without paying
the cost of either.
You get to choose
whether you
help him cheat
his own evolution
or hold the line
that makes him
grow the f**k up.
You get to choose whether
to become the woman
you once wept over.
So will you be the one
he comes to for light
while keeping another
woman in the dark?
Will you be
his temporary
escape route?
His nostalgia fix.
His secret softness
while someone else
sleeps beside a man
who goes
missing in plain sight.
Will you help a man
cheat on his partner
and call it chemistry?
Because I’ve been the
woman who was erased.
Who was lied to.
Who was blamed
for his boredom
while he texted
someone else, saying,
“Hey! I’ve been
thinking about you.”
And I remember
how that burned.
So I choose
not to pass the match.
I choose not to become
another woman’s ache
just because I still feel mine.
Let him eat
his own emptiness.
Let him tend
to the garden he chose.
Let him learn
that love
is not something
you borrow
from the past
when the present
feels dull.
Let him learn
to feed himself -
without stealing your life,
or spoiling hers.
Because this time,
perhaps you won't
answer the message.
This time,
maybe
you will
answer yourself.
♥️🔥♥️🔥♥️🔥♥️🔥♥️
Love,
Kas 🌟
From: “Unf**kwithable”
by Kassi Martin
September 2025
**kwithable
