There are days when I get this little flicker of chaos — not anger, not sadness, just a restless urge to write a breakup text. Not because I want to leave him. I don’t. I just like knowing I could.
So, there I was, sitting on my couch, TV humming in the background, thumbs hovering over my phone, crafting the perfect message. The kind that’s short but devastating. The kind that sounds mature, but secretly twists the knife. A breakup text so poetic it should win awards — and never, ever see daylight.
“Hey, I think we’ve grown in different directions. You’re still great, I just don’t feel that spark anymore.”
I typed it out, read it twice, and then stared at it like I’d just performed emotional witchcraft. Then I hit save draft — my version of emotional skydiving with the parachute open.
The Confession
There’s a weird thrill in rehearsing your own freedom. It’s not about wanting out — it’s about remembering you could get out if you ever had to. The fake breakup text is like a fire drill for your heart. You hope you’ll never use it, but it feels good to know where the exits are.
I’ve written a few over the years. One for every relationship, even the good ones.
It’s never a threat. It’s never even serious. It’s more like a journal entry I can’t admit to keeping. A safe, private little rebellion typed between sips of wine.
The texts are always calm and mature. No insults, no crying emojis, no “you’ll regret this.” Just neat, polite detachment. Like a breakup from someone who has it together — which, spoiler alert, I never do.
Sometimes I scroll back through them, like emotional drafts of people I used to be. Each one is a tiny time capsule of an almost-ending that never happened.
The Reflection
I think it’s about control. Relationships — even healthy ones — mean handing someone else a piece of your sanity. Writing a breakup text is a way of saying, Hey, I still own my piece.
It’s not malicious. It’s comfort.
Like checking the locks before bed, or Googling flight prices you’ll never book. It’s that “what if” energy that hums quietly under the surface of every long-term thing. What if it ended? What if I started over? What if I said goodbye first?
And it’s weirdly therapeutic. Writing the words “I think I’m done” lets you exhale all the tiny frustrations you’d never actually say out loud. The boredom. The irritation. The crumb trail on the counter that’s been there for three days. You let it out in pretend form — then you delete it, smile, and move on with your day.
The Punchline
The draft still sits there in my notes app, waiting. A digital safety blanket made of pretend courage. I open it sometimes, reread it, laugh at myself, then lock my phone and go make dinner.
Because I don’t want to break up. I just like knowing that I could — that the power isn’t gone, it’s just resting quietly in a little gray bubble, unsent and perfectly worded.
It’s the emotional equivalent of keeping scissors in a drawer. You don’t plan to use them, but somehow it’s comforting to know they’re sharp.
And that, my friends, is the kind of thought crime that makes love feel a little less like surrender — and a little more like choice.
Edit: He dumped me a few months after I wrote this piece. Guess we had hidden issues I wasn’t prepared for. Sometimes, life smacks you in the face.
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