Ex Marks the Spot
Hot Cocoa and Cold Realizations
I couldn’t help but wonder: why is it that after a breakup, even the friendly, “we’re still on good terms” kind, we all suddenly go into hibernation?
It’s not heartbreak, exactly. It’s like emotional jet lag. You just… power down. You dodge brunch invitations, forget to answer texts, and spend entire weekends in your “comfy-but-still-cute” pajamas, spoon-deep in noodles, convincing yourself the next episode counts as self-care.
In my case, self-care came in the form of K-dramas.
There’s something healing about watching handsome chaebol heirs fall in love with broke but beautiful girls who trip every five minutes. The grand gestures, the slow-mo confessions, the rain scenes — pure serotonin.
And yes, I started to think, maybe a Korean billionaire would be good for me. At least when they disappear, it’s for dramatic plot development, not because they “need space.”
Then, of course, the universe laughed.
A week into my cozy cave era, I ran into an ex — that ex — the one from four years ago. The kind of man you don’t expect to see again unless it’s in your therapy flashbacks.
He’s tall, half-Italian, dark-eyed, with that faint cigarette smell that once seemed brooding and now just screams “lung risk.” Conventionally attractive in the way Ikea furniture is functional: looks fine, falls apart under pressure.
He smiled, that same calculated, mysterious smile, and offered coffee. Then, remembering, added, “Or hot cocoa, you always liked that when it got cold.”
And like a fool with a nostalgia allergy, I said yes.
Fifteen minutes in, I remembered exactly who he was: the man who used to fit me into open time slots between his “real” plans.
Now, here we were again, the same table, the same dynamic. He talked about himself, complained about other women (always a charming move), and called me his first love, like that was supposed to sound romantic instead of tragic.
Newsflash: love doesn’t feel like waiting for someone to text you back for three business days.
By the time I stood up to leave, politely, because apparently I’m still a lady, he switched gears. The compliments turned into jabs. The self-pity became insults. Classic move: when they lose control of the narrative, they throw a tantrum and call it honesty.
I walked away, head high, grinning. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a man unravel because you’re not playing the game anymore.
Here’s the thing: I’m not angry or bitter. I just finally know the difference between attention and effort.
Back then, he couldn’t make time for me. Now, he only had time because he had nothing better to do.
And honestly? I have better things to do than rehearse the past with someone who never learned his lines.
And as I walked home, cocoa in hand and cigarette smoke clinging to my coat, I realized something simple:
The only thing that’s changed about him is my willingness to care.