I’m Not Ending Things With My Ex Just Because You’re Jealous – He’s Only a Friend!

If you’d asked me two years ago who I was going to marry, I would’ve said “Harper” without hesitating.

I would’ve pictured her laugh first—the loud, unselfconscious kind that made people turn their heads in a bar. Then I’d see her freckles, the way they dusted across her nose in the summer. Then her stupid oversized denim jacket she wore even when it was ninety-five degrees because it was “part of the vibe.”

I would’ve pictured us in Austin, in the little South Lamar apartment we called “the shoebox” because you could stand in the middle and basically touch all four walls if you tried.

Back then, the biggest fight we’d had was over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

Back then, I hadn’t met her ex.

And back then, she hadn’t laughed in my face and said, “I’m not ending things with my ex just because you’re jealous, Ethan. He’s only a friend,” like I was a punchline.

We met at a friend’s rooftop party in February. The kind of Austin night where it’s fifty degrees but everyone’s still dressed like it’s October in Los Angeles.

I was there because my roommate, Ryan, had dragged me out after a brutal week at my software job. Harper was there because she knew the DJ. Of course she did.

She was leaning against the railing, hair in a messy bun, wearing that denim jacket over a black dress and white sneakers. She had a plastic cup of cheap beer in one hand and was arguing with some guy about whether The 1975 was overrated.

I wasn’t even trying to listen. But then she said, “I’m just saying, if your entire personality is being a sad boy in a leather jacket, maybe try therapy instead of another album,” and I laughed before I could stop myself.

She glanced over, caught my eye, and grinned. “You agree?” she asked, zeroing in like we were already mid-conversation.

“I mean,” I said, stepping closer, “I like them.”

She made a face. “Terrible start.”

“But,” I added quickly, “I also go to therapy. So maybe I’m, like, a balanced sad boy?”

She snorted. “That’s the worst elevator pitch I’ve ever heard.”

I shrugged. “Did it work?”

She hesitated, then smiled. “You’re not completely dismissed, Ethan.”

“You don’t know my name yet,” I pointed out.

“You look like an Ethan,” she said, waving her hand. “Or a Noah. But you give off Ethan vibes. I’m Harper.”

“Nice to meet you, person who hates The 1975.”

And that was that.

We spent the rest of the night talking. The kind of conversation where the world shrinks down to the two of you and the sticky rooftop concrete beneath your feet. We traded favorite movies like secrets. She liked messy, emotional films where everyone cried and no one did the dishes. I liked heist movies and anything where someone had to crack a code.

She worked in social media for a local brand, which was exactly as chaotic as it sounded. I wrote software for a fintech company, which was exactly as boring as it sounded.

“You’re like, a professional introvert,” she decided.

“You post photos of tacos for money,” I countered.

“Brand storytelling,” she corrected, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Respect the hustle.”

We kissed for the first time in the stairwell on the way down, her hand tugging me closer by my T-shirt. It tasted like cheap beer and mint gum and the beginning of something.

I had no idea that night how many endings were waiting inside it.

The first time I heard about Liam, we were on her couch, a bowl of popcorn between us, some Netflix docu-series playing in the background while she scrolled through her phone.

“Ugh,” she groaned suddenly.

“What?” I asked, stealing a handful of popcorn.

She turned her phone to show me a text from someone saved as “Liam 🙄.”

Liam 🙄: You’d look so hot in that green dress you used to wear.

“Who’s that?” I asked, trying to sound casual and probably failing.

“My ex,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He’s being annoying.”

Red flags should’ve flapped in strong wind at that moment. They fluttered a little. I ignored them.

“You still talk to your ex?” I asked, popping a kernel into my mouth.

“We were together for three years,” she said. “He knows my whole family. He was there when my dog died. We’ve been through stuff. We’re friends.”

“Huh,” I said. “And he texts you about how hot you’d look in a dress.”

She grimaced. “Yeah, that’s… new. He’s in one of his ‘I miss you’ phases.”

“Do you… miss him?” I asked, heart thudding, hating myself a little for asking.

She snorted. “I miss not hearing him chew cereal,” she said. “Dude slurps like he’s starring in a horror movie. We’re better as friends. Trust me.”

She typed back:

Harper: Stop being weird. We’re friends. That’s not the vibe.

He sent back a crying laughing emoji.

She locked her phone and tossed it onto the coffee table.

“Drama averted,” she announced, snuggling into my side.

I put my arm around her. “Do you… hang out with him?” I asked lightly.

“Sometimes,” she said. “Group stuff. He’s friends with my roommate. I told you that.”

“You didn’t,” I said.

“I meant to,” she said. “See? You’re already part of a canon event.”

I chuckled, but unease prickled at the back of my neck.

“Ethan,” she said, tipping her head back to look at me. “Don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“The one that says, ‘I am a chill guy but also my eye is twitching a little.’”

I tried to look offended. “I do not have a twi—”

She booped my nose. “If it makes you feel better, you can come next time. Double-check he doesn’t chew cereal around me.”

I knew I could’ve pushed more. Ask for specifics. Ask how often they talked. Ask if it was over-over.

But we were only a couple months in. It felt early to be The Jealous Boyfriend.

So I let it go.

Or I thought I did.

Looking back, that was the first time I chose keeping the peace over listening to my gut.

Spoiler: it wouldn’t be the last.

The first time I met him was at a dive bar on Red River with sticky floors and Christmas lights strung up year-round.

Harper had asked me to come out with her and some friends on a Saturday night. “It’ll be fun,” she’d said, already half in her makeup bag. “Live band, cheap drinks, my best college people. I want them to meet my boyfriend.”

The word boyfriend warmed my chest more than the beer I was holding when we walked in.

We were about twenty minutes in—midway through a conversation with her roommate Taylor about succulents and their alleged immortality—when Harper’s face lit up.

“Liam!” she yelled, waving.

I turned.

He was exactly the type of guy you’d expect to see in an Instagram ad. Tall. Blond. Faded denim jacket. Black T-shirt that probably cost more than my entire outfit. The kind of easy swagger I’d never had, even in my most confident moments.

He hugged Harper like they’d seen each other last week, not months ago like she’d implied. He picked her up off the ground for a second, her legs kicking out behind her, both of them laughing.

My stomach did a slow roll.

She pulled back and grabbed my arm, dragging me closer. “Liam, this is Ethan,” she said happily. “My boyfriend. Ethan, this is Liam. You know, the human tornado.”

I stuck my hand out. “Hey, man,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

He gave me a once-over in half a second, then smiled. “So this is the famous Ethan,” he said, shaking my hand. His grip was firm, bordering on a little too tight.

I swallowed. “Famous?” I echoed.

“Harper doesn’t shut up about you in the group chat,” he said. “Golden retriever energy, or something.”

Harper gasped. “I said that once,” she protested. “And it was a compliment. He’s very loyal.”

“Look at him,” Liam said, clapping me on the shoulder. “He looks like he’d help you move a couch and then fix your Wi-Fi.”

Everyone laughed.

I smiled, even as something in his tone made my teeth clench.

The night rolled on. We drank. We shouted over the band. Liam told stories about Harper from before I knew her—nights they’d stayed up till 3 a.m. on the roof of their old building, road trips to nowhere, a time they’d gotten lost hiking and had to call her mom for help.

Harper’s eyes sparkled with fondness. She jumped in, adding details. They bantered like they’d never broken up.

At one point, he slung an arm around her shoulders when they posed for a photo, pulling her closer than I liked. She didn’t shrug him off.

On the Uber ride home, she curled up against me, head on my shoulder, humming along to some song on the radio.

“Tonight was fun,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It was.”

“He’s not so bad, right?” she asked sleepily. “Liam.”

I hesitated.

“He’s… fine,” I said. “Just… clearly still very comfortable with you.”

She laughed. “We dated forever, Ethan,” she said. “He’s seen me ugly cry over a broken nail. Comfort is the bare minimum.”

I chewed on that for a second.

“Were you honest with him?” I asked quietly. “About us? About it being over?”

She lifted her head, frowning. “Of course,” she said. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because…” I hesitated, then took a breath. “Because he looks at you like it’s not over.”

Her eyes flashed irritation. “Wow,” she said. “Okay.”

“What?” I asked.

“You sound like my mom,” she said. “She thinks men and women can’t be friends because ‘feelings.’ It’s such a tired narrative.”

“I’m not saying you can’t be friends with guys,” I said. “I’m saying he’s your ex. That’s different.”

“Only if you make it different,” she shot back. “We decided we weren’t right together romantically. Now we’re friends. Adults do that.”

“And adults also set boundaries,” I said, a little sharper than I meant to. “Like not letting their ex hang all over them while their boyfriend is standing right there.”

She blinked, taken aback. “He wasn’t ‘hanging all over me,’” she said. “He put his arm around me once for a picture. Are you serious right now?”

“I’m serious about how it made me feel,” I said.

“Jealous?” she said, arching an eyebrow.

Heat rose in my face. “Uncomfortable,” I said. “And honestly a little disrespected.”

She stared at me for a second, then laughed.

The sound cut more than I wanted it to.

“I’m not ending things with my ex just because you’re jealous, Ethan,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s only a friend. You’re overreacting.”

“It’s not about ending—” I started.

“You’re literally policing who I can hang out with,” she interrupted. “Do you know how controlling that sounds?”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t see him,” I said, frustration boiling. “I just said I have a problem with how close you are. Maybe don’t let him pick you up like a rom-com? Maybe tell him you have a boyfriend and friendly flirting isn’t cool?”

Her jaw tightened. “We joke like that with everyone,” she said. “He knows I’m with you. He knows it’s not going anywhere. You’re making drama where there isn’t any.”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing to me,” I said quietly.

“Well, maybe work on your insecurity instead of trying to control my friendships,” she snapped.

Silence crashed down between us.

I looked out the window at the blur of streetlights.

“Okay,” I said eventually. “Got it.”

She scoffed. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That passive-aggressive ‘okay’ like you’re some martyr,” she said. “I can’t believe we’re even fighting about this. I thought you were more secure than that.”

I bit back the instinct to apologize just to make the tension go away.

I should’ve stood my ground harder that night.

Instead, I backed off.

We went to bed separately, too tired and drunk to keep fighting.

The next morning, she was sunshine again, making pancakes like nothing had happened.

I took the olive branch. I told myself it wasn’t worth torpedoing a good relationship over a disagreement about one guy.

I didn’t realize that one guy was about to be in everything.

The thing about small lines you’re uncomfortable with is that, if you ignore them, they don’t just go away.

They move.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly. A text late at night here. A brunch there. A “guess who’s in town for the weekend, I’m grabbing coffee with him” dropped ten minutes before you’d planned to go to the farmer’s market together.

Liam became a constant background presence in our relationship.

He was in her phone, his name lighting up the screen while we watched movies. He was in her stories, tagged at bars and concerts. He was in her vocabulary.

“Liam says you’d like this podcast.”

“Liam said the funniest thing today.”

“You and Liam would actually get along if you gave him a chance.”

I tried. I really did.

I went to group hangs. I laughed at his jokes. I gritted my teeth when he touched her waist to move past her in a crowded bar.

Every time I brought it up, she rolled her eyes.

“I’m not giving up a friend to soothe your ego,” she’d say. “That’s not healthy. I won’t do it.”

I understood, in theory, that asking someone to cut off a friend—especially one with a long history—could be a red-flag move. Controlling. Toxic.

I didn’t want to be that guy.

But there was a difference between “friend” and whatever the hell this was.

I saw the flirty texts. The inside jokes that clearly predated me. The way she lit up when she got a notification from him in a way she didn’t when I sent a meme.

I saw how she vented to him about our fights—little comments I’d hear her repeat later, framed as something “we” (she and Liam) had talked about.

“I’m just saying, Liam agrees that you’re kind of conflict avoidant,” she’d say in the middle of an argument about the dishes.

“Why does Liam get a vote in our relationship?” I’d snap.

“He’s a neutral third party,” she’d reply. “It helps to get perspective.”

“He’s not neutral,” I’d say. “He’s your ex who’s still in love with you.”

That one always went over well.

Summer rolled into fall. Leaves don’t change much in Austin, but the air does. The heat loses its edge. People start talking about college football like it’s a religion.

Harper and I hit our one-year anniversary in October. We celebrated by spending a weekend in Fredericksburg, drinking wine and pretending we were a couple that didn’t fight about an invisible third person in our bed.

It was… good. Better than it had been in a while. We hiked. We took cheesy photos at vineyards. We had sex in the morning and didn’t rush it.

On the drive home, she reached across the center console, lacing her fingers through mine.

“I really love you,” she said, wrist resting on my thigh. “You know that, right?”

My chest tightened.

“I love you too,” I said.

For the first time in months, I let myself imagine a future that didn’t involve me gritting my teeth at some bar while her ex told another story about “back in the day.”

Then, at a red light, her phone buzzed in the cup holder.

A preview popped up.

Liam 🙄: Miss you. When are you back?

The moment cracked.

She saw me see it.

I felt her hand stiffen in mine.

“Don’t,” she said quickly.

“Don’t what?” I asked, my voice already flat.

“Don’t ruin this,” she said. “Please, Ethan. We just had the perfect weekend. Can we not drag Liam into it?”

“He dragged himself,” I said.

“He probably just wants to know if I’m going to trivia on Tuesday,” she said. “You know he always—”

“‘Miss you’?” I cut in. “That’s not a ‘see you at trivia’ text, Harper.”

She huffed. “It’s just how he talks,” she said. “He says that to everyone. He’s dramatic.”

“He doesn’t say it to me,” I said.

“You’re not his friend,” she shot back.

“And he’s not just your friend,” I said.

Her eyes flashed. “Here we go,” she muttered.

The light turned green. I hit the gas a little harder than necessary.

“We’ve had this conversation a hundred times,” she said. “I’m so tired of it.”

“I’m tired of feeling like I’m sharing my girlfriend,” I said.

“You’re not,” she said. “I go home with you every night. I have a future with you, Ethan. Why isn’t that enough?”

“Because you give him pieces of you I thought were mine,” I said, the words spilling out before I could edit them.

She frowned. “That’s not how this works,” she said. “I don’t belong to you. You don’t own my history.”

“I don’t want to own you,” I said, grip tightening on the wheel. “I want us to be a team. Which means the team comes before your ex’s feelings.”

“He’s not my ex—” she started, then stopped, hearing herself. “I mean, he is, but he’s also my friend.”

“And when are you going to admit those two things don’t coexist cleanly?” I asked.

We didn’t talk the rest of the drive.

When we got home, she went straight to the shower.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone still in the cup holder of my car through the window.

A voice in my head whispered: Check it.

Another voice said: That’s a violation.

I’d always prided myself on not being that guy. The one who snooped. The one who went through phones and emails like a detective.

Trust meant not needing to, right?

But did I trust her?

I stared another second.

Then I grabbed the phone.

I told myself I was just… checking context. Looking for proof that I was wrong. That it was all harmless.

The lock screen opened with FaceID.

Her messages app was right there.

My fingers hovered over it.

I hesitated… then tapped.

I scrolled to Liam.

The thread was pinned at the top.

Of course it was.

I opened it.

My stomach dropped.

It was worse than I imagined.

Not full-on sexting. No explicit pictures. But intimacy, threaded through every line.

Liam 🙄: Remember when we got that cabin in Wimberley and it rained the whole time?
Harper: And we stayed in and played Mario Kart and got high lol
Liam 🙄: And you beat me even though you were so crossfaded you kept calling Yoshi a dinosaur dog
Harper: He is a dinosaur dog
Liam 🙄: Miss that.
Harper: You miss losing?
Liam 🙄: I miss you. Cabin weekends hit different.

Further up:

Liam 🙄: How did your date go?
Harper: Don’t call it a date lol
Liam 🙄: You went to Fredericksburg for the weekend with your boyfriend, that’s a date
Harper: It was nice
Liam 🙄: Good nice or settling nice?

My chest squeezed.

Harper: idk yet
Liam 🙄: You know you and I never had to “settle” right? We were just us.
Harper: Until we weren’t.
Liam 🙄: Only because you freaked out about the future
Harper: That’s not fair
Liam 🙄: I’m just saying, if you ever want cabin weekends again, you know where I am

There it was.

Flirty. Nostalgic. A door, left just enough ajar.

And her… not exactly slamming it.

I scrolled further back.

Fights she’d had with me, replayed for him.

Harper: He’s mad I went to your birthday thing
Liam 🙄: Because I exist??
Harper: Basically
Liam 🙄: Dude sounds insecure
Harper: He’s just not used to exes staying friends
Liam 🙄: Or maybe he can tell we have history and it scares him
Harper: lmao don’t
Liam 🙄: “Don’t” what
Harper: Don’t make this a thing
Liam 🙄: It was always a thing. We were never just casual, Harp.
Harper: We weren’t good together.
Liam 🙄: Sometimes the best things are messy.
Harper: I have to go, Ethan just got home

My vision blurred.

I put the phone down like it burned.

My heart was pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears.

The shower turned off.

I shoved the phone back into the cup holder, hands shaking, then sat on the bed, trying to look like I hadn’t just detonated a bomb in my own head.

Harper walked in wrapped in a towel, hair up, cheeks pink.

“You’re still mad,” she said, reading my face instantly.

I stared at her.

“I read your texts with Liam,” I said.

Her whole body went still.

“What?” she whispered.

“I saw his text pop up,” I said. “I told myself I wouldn’t look. Then I did. I read… a lot.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “You went through my phone?” she said. “Are you serious right now?”

“That’s what you’re focusing on?” I shot back. “Not the part where you’re letting your ex talk about missing you and hinting about cabins and acting like we’re some ‘settling’ phase?”

“It’s my private messages,” she said, voice rising. “You violated my privacy.”

“Your private messages about me,” I said. “About our relationship. With a guy who so clearly still wants you. Do you really think that’s fair?”

She grabbed her phone from the cup holder, scrolling quickly, face paling as she saw what I’d seen.

“It’s not like that,” she said weakly.

“Then what is it like?” I demanded. “Explain it to me. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re keeping him as an emotional backup. You don’t want to date him, but you don’t want to let him go either. You let him say things that cross every boundary of ‘just friends,’ and you laugh it off, and then you come home to me like nothing’s wrong.”

“It’s just how we talk,” she said, voice trembling. “We have history. We’re always going to have history. That doesn’t mean I want to get back together with him.”

“Then why didn’t you shut it down?” I asked. “Why didn’t you say, ‘Hey, don’t text me that you miss me. It’s disrespectful to Ethan.’ Why didn’t you tell him not to call our relationship ‘settling’?”

She flinched.

“I didn’t want to hurt his feelings,” she mumbled.

I laughed. A harsh, ugly sound.

“You didn’t want to hurt his feelings?” I echoed. “What about mine?”

Tears filled her eyes. “I didn’t think you’d see it,” she whispered.

“That’s not the comforting answer you think it is,” I said.

She wiped her cheeks angrily. “You shouldn’t have looked,” she said. “If you’d trusted me—”

“I trusted you,” I snapped. “That’s why I didn’t look for months. That’s why I kept telling myself I was being paranoid. That’s why I backed down every time you told me I was ‘controlling’ for not wanting your ex to text you that he misses bedroom cabins with you.”

“It wasn’t like that,” she said again, but her conviction was draining.

Silence stretched.

I could see the wheels turning in her head, replaying all the times she’d brushed off my discomfort, all the jokes she’d let slide, all the moments she’d chosen not to draw a line because it would’ve been awkward.

“I love you,” she said suddenly. “I love you, Ethan. Not him. You know that, right?”

“Do I?” I asked, voice breaking. “Because right now it feels like I’m fighting a ghost I can’t compete with.”

Her shoulders slumped.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, defeat creeping into her tone. “Spell it out. What would make you feel better? Because if you say ‘never talk to him again,’ I’m not doing it. I won’t cut people out of my life like that.”

I took a breath, trying to steady myself.

“I want you to recognize that what you have with him is not healthy,” I said. “It’s not just friendship. It’s emotional… something. You run to him with our problems. You let him hint about wanting you back. You take his side in arguments he shouldn’t even be part of.”

“And you think the solution is to just… cut him off?” she asked.

“I think the solution is to set boundaries,” I said. “Strong ones. That might look like a break in contact. That might look like only talking in group settings. But yeah, I think ‘daily texting with your ex who still tells you he misses you’ needs to stop if we’re going to have a shot.”

She laughed bitterly through her tears. “You don’t compromise, do you?” she said. “It’s always ‘my way or nothing.’”

“I compromised for a year,” I said. “I swallowed my discomfort. I smiled at him. I pretended it was fine. I gave you the benefit of the doubt even when my gut screamed.”

“Your gut needs to chill,” she muttered.

“My gut was right,” I said. “Look me in the eye and tell me if I hadn’t said anything, you would’ve eventually told him, ‘Hey, this isn’t appropriate.’”

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Her silence answered for her.

The argument spun out from there. Words said that we both meant and didn’t mean.

She accused me of being controlling. I accused her of emotional cheating.

She said I had no right to go through her phone. I said I’d rather know the ugly truth than live in comfortable ignorance.

At one point, she shouted, “I’m not ending things with my ex just because you’re jealous, Ethan! He’s only a friend!” and it landed differently this time.

Because we both knew it wasn’t true.

“You keep saying that like it’ll manifest into reality,” I said quietly. “But it won’t. He’s not just a friend, Harper. He’s your plan B. And I refuse to be with someone whose plan B is sitting in the front row of our relationship.”

She sank onto the bed, burying her face in her hands.

“So that’s it?” she asked muffled. “You’re giving me an ultimatum?”

“I’m telling you my boundary,” I said. “Which is that I can’t do this anymore. Not like this. Not with him in the wings. If you want to be with me, really be with me, something has to change. And yeah, that might mean ending things with Liam. For real this time.”

She looked up, eyes red.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me to cut off someone who’s been in my life longer than you,” she said.

“I can’t believe you’re okay losing me to maintain a situationship with a guy who treats you like a backup plan,” I replied.

We stared at each other, the air between us thick.

“I need space,” she said finally. “I can’t… think right now.”

“Okay,” I said, throat tight. “I’ll stay at Ryan’s for a few days.”

She flinched like she’d expected me to say I’d sleep on the couch instead.

We packed bags in silence. I grabbed some clothes, my laptop, my toothbrush. She sat on the bed, phone in hand, staring at the Liam thread.

“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” I said at the door. “But I am telling you I’m not coming back to being third in my own relationship.”

She didn’t look up.

“Goodbye, Ethan,” she said quietly.

I left.

It felt like my chest was cracked open.

I didn’t know then that things were about to get much messier before they got clearer.

Two days into my self-imposed exile at Ryan’s, I got a DM on Instagram from someone I didn’t know.

Her name was Jess. Her profile picture was her in a UT hoodie, smiling with a group of friends at a tailgate.

Jess: Hey, I know this is super weird and random, but are you dating Harper?

I stared at the message.

Me: Yeah. Why?

Three dots blinked.

Jess: I’m Liam’s ex. We just broke up. Can I ask you a few questions about… something?

My heart started pounding.

Me: Sure.

She asked for my number. I gave it to her.

She called within a minute.

“Hey,” she said, voice shaky but determined. “Sorry to just, like, barge into your life like this.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m kind of used to people barging into my relationship lately.”

She gave a quick, humorless laugh.

“Right,” she said. “So. I know this is going to sound insane, but I need to know if I’m crazy.”

“We might be in the same boat,” I said. “Shoot.”

“Liam and I have been together for about a year and a half,” she said. “We broke up last week. Well, I broke up with him. Because he cannot stop talking about his ex. Harper.”

I closed my eyes.

“Okay,” I said slowly.

She blew out a breath. “He paints this tragic picture of them,” she said. “Like, they were soulmates who got torn apart because she ‘was scared of how intense it was.’ He says they’re friends now. That he respects her boundaries. But he also texts her all the time. Like, all the time.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve noticed.”

“He hides it from me,” she continued. “He’ll flip his phone over when she texts. He says he doesn’t, but I see him. And anytime we fight, he’ll say some shit like, ‘Harper never used to do that,’ or ‘Harper understood me better.’”

Rage flared in my chest.

“I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend until a few months ago,” Jess said. “And when I found out, it was because he slipped up and mentioned ‘her guy.’ Like he couldn’t remember your name. I asked why he hadn’t told me and he said it didn’t matter because their connection was ‘different.’”

“Jesus,” I muttered.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I ignored it for a long time because I thought I was being insecure. But last week, he was drunk, and he told me, in this slurry confession, that he’s ‘just waiting for her to realize they’re endgame’ and that you—Ethan, right?—are just a ‘safe phase.’”

I felt like I’d swallowed glass.

“He called you a placeholder,” she said softly. “And me too. Just… stepping stones back to Harper.”

Silence stretched.

“I broke up with him,” she said. “Obviously. But I kept thinking about you. Because I’d seen your photos with her. I saw you at the bar once, actually. You seemed… nice.”

“Thanks,” I said weakly.

“I asked him, when I broke up with him, if he’d ever told Harper what he told me,” Jess said. “He laughed. And then he said, ‘Harper knows. We just can’t be together right now. But she’ll come back. She always does.’”

My stomach churned.

“He said they hook up sometimes,” she added quietly.

The room tilted.

“What?” I asked.

“He said it just ‘happens’ sometimes when they’re drinking,” she said. “That she’s ‘confused’ about what she wants. That you’re not supposed to know. He said it like it was a given, like I’d understand because he’s so tortured or whatever.”

I sat down hard on Ryan’s couch.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Jess said. “I know this is… terrible to hear. But I kept thinking about how I would want someone to tell me if I was in your shoes. I don’t know if he’s lying, or if he’s exaggerating to hurt me, or what. But when I saw you’re not in Harper’s stories lately, I thought… maybe you’re already going through something, and you deserve more info.”

“Thank you,” I said numbly. “Seriously. This… sucks. But thank you.”

“I have screenshots,” she added. “If you want them. Of him talking about her. About you.”

“Send them,” I said.

She did.

I read them with a sick, detached feeling, like I was watching a movie of my own life.

Liam: She says she loves him
Jess: Then back off??
Liam: It’s not that simple
Jess: It’s exactly that simple
Liam: You don’t get it, Harp and I are different
Jess: She has a boyfriend
Liam: For now

Another:

Jess: Did you guys hook up??
Liam: Not your business anymore
Jess: Did you do it while we were together
Liam: It just happened a couple times. It’s not like that.
Jess: She has a boyfriend!
Liam: She’s confused. She’ll figure it out.

I felt like I might throw up.

“Again,” Jess said on the phone, her voice small, “I don’t know if he’s telling the truth. He lies. A lot. But I thought… if there’s even a chance…” She trailed off.

“No, you did the right thing,” I said. “I appreciate it. Really.”

We hung up.

I sat there, phone in my lap, staring at the screenshots until the words blurred.

Harper had sworn, repeatedly, that nothing was happening with Liam. That it was all in my head. That he was “just a friend.”

Maybe she’d been lying. Maybe he was.

Either way, the picture was clear: I was not in a partnership. I was in a triangle where two of the sides still hadn’t cut their cord.

Something inside me snapped.

Not in a dramatic, “slash all his tires” way.

In a quiet, deep way.

I was done.

Harper texted that evening.

Harper: Can we talk?

I stared at the screen, thumbs hovering.

Me: In person.

We met at the apartment. Neutral ground that didn’t feel neutral anymore.

She looked rough. Hair in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes, wearing one of my old hoodies like a shield.

“I’m sorry,” she said the second I walked in. No preamble. No small talk. “I’ve been an asshole.”

I blinked. I’d expected defensiveness, more accusations about privacy.

She took a shaky breath.

“I talked to my therapist,” she said. “And to Taylor. And to my mom. And they all said some version of the same thing: that I’ve been keeping Liam too close. That I wasn’t being fair to you. That just because the idea of cutting him off makes me anxious doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

Part of me warmed at that.

Part of me held up the screenshots like a shield.

“I realized,” she went on, “that I like feeling wanted. By both of you. That having him there, still flirting with me, made me feel… powerful. Like if things went wrong with us, I had a safety net. And that’s messed up.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “You didn’t deserve that. You deserve someone who chooses you with both hands, not one hand on you and one on the past.”

I swallowed hard.

“Jess called me,” I said quietly.

Her brows knit. “Jess?”

“Liam’s ex,” I said.

Color drained from her face.

“She told me some things,” I said. “About how he talks about you. About me.”

She sank onto the arm of the couch, legs wobbling.

“What did he say?” she whispered.

I handed her my phone with the screenshots.

She read them, hand covering her mouth.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Oh my God.”

More tears.

“He told me they weren’t serious,” she said, voice breaking. “He said he was over me. That we were just friends. He said he respected my relationship. I… believed him.”

“He said you hooked up while you were with him,” I said. “And me.”

She looked up sharply, eyes wide. “That’s not true,” she said, shaking her head hard. “Ethan, I swear to God. I have not cheated on you with him. Not physically. I’ve thought about… what it would be like. But I haven’t. I promise.”

I studied her face. The panic. The shame.

I believed her.

Which didn’t make everything else disappear.

“That doesn’t make all of this okay,” I said.

“I know,” she said quickly. “I know. I emotionally cheated. Or at least… let him emotionally hang on while I tried to move on. That’s… almost worse, in some ways.”

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it all pressing down.

“I called him,” she blurted. “After you left. Yesterday. I told him I needed space. That I’d been hurting you. That we couldn’t be whatever we’ve been. He got mad. He said I’m letting my ‘boring boyfriend’ dictate my life. He said you’re going to leave me anyway because I’m too much.”

She laughed bitterly. “Then I hung up on him for the first time in my life.”

A small, sad triumph.

“He texted a bunch,” she said. “I haven’t answered. I think… I think I needed you to see that. That I chose you.”

I took a breath.

“I appreciate that,” I said. “I do. And maybe six months ago, that would’ve been enough for me to keep going. But now… after everything… after reading those messages, after seeing how deep it was… I don’t know if I can just pick up where we left off.”

Panic flashed in her eyes. “So what, you’re done?” she asked, voice shaking. “Just like that? Even though I’m finally doing what you wanted?”

“It’s not about getting what I wanted,” I said softly. “This isn’t a test you failed and now passed. This is… a pattern. A dynamic. You made me feel like I was crazy for months. Like I was insecure and controlling and jealous. And now that you see I wasn’t, I’m… tired.”

Tears slid down her cheeks.

“I can change,” she said. “I’m going to therapy. I’m cutting him off. I blocked his number. Look.”

She showed me her phone. His contact was gone. His texts stopped at “answer me.”

“I’m proud of you,” I said. “Truly. For doing that. For setting a boundary you should’ve set years ago.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re already halfway out the door?” she asked.

Because I was.

And that sucked.

“Because I don’t know how to trust you right now,” I admitted. “Not fully. I don’t know how to un-hear you laughing at me for being jealous. I don’t know how to forget that you let him call me a placeholder in your mind, even if you didn’t say it out loud.”

“I never thought of you that way,” she protested.

“Maybe not consciously,” I said. “But you kept him like a security blanket. And when I asked you to put it away, you wrapped it tighter and told me I was imagining being cold.”

She winced.

“That’s a good metaphor,” she said weakly. “I hate that it’s about me.”

I gave a humorless half-smile.

“I don’t want to punish you forever,” I said. “I don’t want to drag this out. I just… I think we broke something. And I don’t know if we can fix it in a way that’s healthy for either of us. Not without resenting each other for a long time.”

“So we just… give up?” she asked, voice small. “After everything?”

“I don’t think walking away is giving up,” I said quietly. “Not anymore. I think it’s choosing not to keep tearing each other up trying to be something we’re not ready to be.”

She looked at me for a long time. Really looked at me. Like she was finally seeing how tired I was. How thin I’d stretched myself trying to be “chill” while my insides twisted.

“I thought you’d stay no matter what,” she admitted. “That even if we crashed into the wall a few times, you’d be there in the wreckage with me.”

“I thought you’d pick me before we hit the wall,” I said.

We both laughed, choked and wet and not at all funny.

“What do we do?” she whispered.

“We heal,” I said. “Separately.”

The word hung in the air.

I watched it land.

She swallowed.

“You’re breaking up with me,” she said. Not a question. Just fact.

My chest ached.

“Yes,” I said. “I am.”

We cried. Of course we did. Ugly, messy crying on opposite ends of the same couch we’d once made out on while trying not to drop salsa.

She asked if there was anything she could do to change my mind. I said I didn’t think there was. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

We talked logistics. The apartment. The furniture. The dog we didn’t have, thank God.

We divided our life like assets on a spreadsheet.

It felt both too grown-up and completely unfair.

When I left that night, backpack on my shoulder, I turned at the door.

“Harper,” I said.

She looked up, eyes swollen.

“I never wanted to be right about him,” I said. “I would’ve loved to be the jealous idiot who overreacted. I don’t feel vindicated. I just feel sad.”

She nodded, sniffing.

“You were right,” she said. “I should’ve listened. I’m sorry it took losing you to see it.”

I stepped out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind me.

This time, that sound didn’t ruin my life.

It just… changed it.

It’s been a year.

A whole twelve months without Harper’s denim jacket draped over the back of my couch. Without Liam’s name popping up on her phone. Without feeling like I’m in competition with someone who isn’t even in the room.

I moved to a new place—still in Austin, but with more windows and less history.

Harper and I text occasionally. Birthdays. “Saw this meme and thought of you.” Once, when a band we both loved announced a tour, she messaged, “We always said we’d see them live someday. Hope you get tickets.”

I didn’t ask if she went with someone else.

She sent me a screenshot a few months after the breakup. Her messages with Liam.

It was a single text from her:

Harper: Please stop contacting me. This is my boundary. I won’t be responding anymore. I hope you get the help you need.

And then a wall of blue from him, unsent in her phone.

She’d blocked his number.

It didn’t fix what happened between us.

But it meant she’d learned something.

I’ve learned too.

About boundaries. About paying attention to that quiet voice that says something isn’t right, even when everyone else is telling you you’re overreacting.

About the difference between being “chill” and betraying yourself.

I’m dating again.

No one serious yet.

But when I meet someone new, I ask different questions now.

Not just “What’s your favorite movie?” and “Do you like dogs?” but “How do you handle conflict?” and “What are your boundaries with exes?”

It sounds heavy. It is.

But I’d rather carry that weight up front than be crushed by it later.

Sometimes, late at night, I think about Harper.

I wonder if she’s with someone who never has to know the name Liam.

I wonder if she sets better boundaries now. If she’s kinder to future versions of me.

I hope she is.

Because for all the pain, there was real love there, too.

We were just two messy twenty-somethings trying to build a healthy relationship on top of unresolved wreckage.

It was bound to crack.

People love to say “If they want to, they will.” Like it’s simple. Like love is a straight line you just walk if you’re brave enough.

But the truth is more complicated.

Sometimes they want to—and still, they don’t know how.

Sometimes they laugh off your jealousy because admitting you’re right means facing things they’re not ready to face.

Sometimes they cling to their ex because letting go feels like losing a part of themselves.

And sometimes, by the time they finally choose you, you’ve already learned to choose yourself.

Harper once told me, back when things were good, “I like that you’re not dramatic, Ethan. You’re steady. You’re safe.”

She meant it as a compliment.

It was.

But safety doesn’t mean tolerating everything.

Steadiness doesn’t mean standing in place while someone else has one foot in and one foot out.

If I ever find myself in that position again—dating someone with a “just a friend” ex who still texts “miss you” at midnight—I’ll know what to do.

I won’t yell.

I won’t snoop for months, then explode.

I’ll say, calmly:

“I’m not asking you to erase your past. But I am asking you to be honest about what it is. And if you can’t put our relationship first, I’m not going to stick around and fight for second place.”

And if they laugh and say, “I’m not ending things with my ex just because you’re jealous, he’s only a friend!” I won’t argue.

I’ll listen to what they’re really telling me:

My comfort with my past matters more than your safety in my present.

Then I’ll pack my bag.

And this time, I’ll leave before the argument becomes a war.

Because jealousy isn’t always a flaw.

Sometimes, it’s your gut trying to protect you.

And ignoring it is the real betrayal.

THE END