I don’t want to accept my ex’s friend request.
And before the sapphic court of law tries to revoke my queer card for saying that out loud, hear me out. This isn’t about being petty.
She was a Pisces. A classic one. Fantasy-prone, romantic, an old soul with a deep ache in her eyes and a playlist for every possible moon phase. She felt like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from until you realized the dream was getting…weird. Like, “we’re throwing up together from alcohol poisoning on a Wednesday” weird. But also, like, “impromptu threesome at my neighbor’s house” weird. Life with her was a string of vivid, sensual scenes stitched together by poor decision-making and horny ambition.
We met at a queer party (obviously). Our relationship lasted four months — barely. A blink in lesbian time. But while it was brief, it was also one of the most fun, the most deliriously experimental. And if you had asked me during month two, I would’ve sworn we were twin flames, soulmates, trauma-bonded lesbians with matching playlists and matching trauma. Honestly, it was fun. She was fun. Spontaneous and wildly sensual. There was something electric about being with someone who made every moment feel like a performance art piece we didn’t rehearse for. Even the sex was like a fever dream — wild, consuming, borderline illegal. Then again, most of my sex-periences feel like that. We had sex everywhere. Okay, not everywhere, just all over our shared two-bedroom apartment. Our two roommates politely ignored the muffled moaning sounds.
She was also in a relationship when we met. Surprise! Lesbian timelines are lawless. And no, she did not mention it — at first. She said it was on the rocks, “basically over,” and I, being in my delusional rebound era, said: cool, just make sure it’s actually over before we go any deeper. She ended it. Supposedly. Maybe. Probably. I didn’t do a fact check. I just let myself fall into the delicious chaos. We made the best pork fry combo for dinner almost daily. We cried to hopeless romantic music. Danced.
But from the start, there were flags. Not fully red, but a fiery burnt orange.
She couldn’t put the bottle down. Some nights she’d sip whisky like it was water. Once, we drank so much we were vomiting side-by-side, and I had to take myself to the hospital — because she couldn’t. Cute turned concerning real quick.
And the anger. Oof. You know those people who try so hard to be chill, soft-spoken, poetic, and then suddenly they snap and you’re like “am I in danger?” That was her. A Pisces with an alcohol-fueled rage problem. When the banks broke, she melted down in public. Full-on crying, yelling, emotionally combusting in front of friends and strangers. Walked on the other side of the street all the way home. The romantic mystique started to crack. And under it was a human being who needed therapy. (Don’t we all, though?)
She had a compulsive need to rewatch the same sitcoms — Modern Family, Two Broke Girls, Big Bang Theory. I wish I was joking. My brain still plays random laugh tracks against my will. Somewhere in there, a migraine is hiding.
Still, she was thoughtful. She wanted to know me. She made me feel like I was a poem she hadn’t finished reading. I don’t think she meant harm. I think she was just…her. Intense, loving, messy. The kind of person who hugs you like she means it and texts you at 2 a.m. The kind of girl who looks you dead in the eyes and says “you feel like home” three weeks in.
Ultimately, I realized I wasn’t where I wanted to be — not just physically, but emotionally. It was her house. I didn’t have a space to retreat to, to recharge, or to process the way I needed to.
That’s a truth I didn’t want to face. That this was a rebound that overstayed its welcome. That I was trying to replace grief with sensation. That sometimes, intensity is just pain wearing a sexy outfit.
So, we broke up. Well, I broke up with her. She took it gracefully — if you consider sleeping with my neighbor within days “graceful.” Which, honestly? Fair play. We were both young, sad, hot, and trying our best with our worst instincts.
Now, years later, she’s hovering again. In the digital bushes. A pending friend request. A ghost in my inbox.
And part of me wants to click accept. Just to see. Just to say I’m mature. Just to prove it doesn’t affect me anymore. But then I remember how slippery that slope is. How quickly a casual like turns into a DM. How quickly a “haha remember this?” turns into “do you still think about me?”
Of course I do.
I think about her sometimes. I wonder if she’s sober now. I wonder if she’s dating someone who also likes rewatching Two Broke Girls until the serotonin kicks in. I hope she’s soft and safe and not crying in public anymore. But that doesn’t mean I want her inside my life.
Because here’s the real deal: I’m in a relationship now. Not without its dips and wobbles, but grounded. Real. It’s not an erotic novella, but it’s steady, and I like that.
There’s a kind of ex you can be friends with. The kind that left peacefully. The kind you ran into three years later and genuinely wished well. This is not that.
This is the kind of ex that makes your current girlfriend raise an eyebrow when her name pops up. The kind of ex who might send a text in the middle of the night. The kind who lives on nostalgia and little openings. And once you crack that door, she’s in. Like glitter.
I don’t want her watching my stories. I don’t want her seeing the version of me I am now — the version who survived, evolved, softened in some places and hardened in others.
She made me wheeze-laugh mid-thrust and taught me things about my body I’m still unpacking in therapy. But that doesn’t mean she needs access to my life.
She was a season. A fever dream. A glitter bomb of an experience. And I’m grateful. I am. But also: I’m not accepting that friend request.
She can live in purgatory. Where she belongs.
May she heal. May she thrive. May she find someone who will rewatch those shows with her.
Just…not me.
I have come too far to let nostalgia be the backdoor to my peace.
There’s this myth that queers should always stay friends after a breakup. Queer love is beautiful, and queer breakups are messy.
Queer boundaries? Those are sacred.
Well said. Thank you.
Absolutely, and thank you for taking the time to read.
“…sometimes, intensity is just pain wearing a sexy outfit.”
Brava. I should probably tattoo this on my wrist as a warning. To both myself, and others!