I sat down to write about a dating trend today, and I ended up writing about my own ending. Sometimes the story you set out to tell is eclipsed by the story you’re actually living. This is that.
There’s no way around it: getting ghosted sucks. For those who aren’t in the know, ghosting is the act of simply disappearing. One day, the person you’re seeing or messaging is there; the next, they’ve vanished. No more dates, no more calls, no more messages. They become a proverbial ghost.
Recently, I’ve stumbled onto a different phenomenon: soft ghosting.
In soft ghosting, the person you’re seeing continues to act as if everything is fine, carefully maintaining the status quo. They avoid the hard questions—they certainly don’t want to address the “where do we stand?” conversation. Instead of ending things, they hold out hope that you’ll simply get bored and walk away first.
It might sound strange, but I’ve learned that soft ghosting is more cowardly than traditional ghosting. I learned this the hard way with Veronica, who I’ve been dating casually for the last 18 months.
There were warning signs. We were talking less frequently. She picked up more hours at work—a claim I actually believed, having met her employees. For a few weeks, I told myself it was just bad timing, that our lives were simply colliding with other priorities.
But then, I started to assess the relationship. Things had been moving at a glacial pace—the slowest-moving relationship I’ve ever been in. I was initially okay with that; I wasn’t looking for anything permanent, and she seemed bored by the idea of anything beyond casual. But something shifted when I saw a photo of her with two of her “couple friends” on social media.
Seeing the five of them together, I realized: I should be there. I should be her plus-one. That should be a photo of three couples hanging out.
That photo was the catalyst. It made me realize that something was off. It had been almost a year since I’d tried to initiate a “where do we stand?” conversation. Once I started processing it, I realized this felt less like a relationship and more like a “friends with benefits” dynamic.
We finally met for a drink about 10 days ago. I tried to initiate the talk. “I’m getting the sense that this is devolving into a friendship dynamic,” I told her. “I worry that we’re drifting to a point where we stop texting, stop seeing each other, and eventually, this thing just dies on the vine.”
Her response was dismissive: “Well, you know I’ve been busy at work, and I was trying to let you do your thing.”
Do my thing?
We used to prioritize our Wednesday evenings, even when life got hectic. I could have pushed the conversation harder, but the public setting didn’t feel right, and I could tell she was shutting down. She didn’t want to acknowledge the reality. We spent another hour talking about her work and the Tigers—the usual noise—but I remember sitting there, listening to her ramble, and realizing she was terrified of a real conversation. She preferred the safety of a junior high status quo, never looking toward a future. Coming from me—the guy who usually prides himself on spontaneity—that realization was a wake-up call.
Writing this, I’ll admit something I wasn’t ready to face before: I wanted something more. I wanted stability, maybe even intensity, and Veronica didn’t.
What stupefies me is the passivity. Neither of us has reached out since that night. I feel like I spoke my peace; I told her what I was afraid of, and I was right. Veronica didn’t ghost me; she soft-ghosted me. Rather than being the “bad guy” or having the tough conversation, she waited for me to walk away.
I don’t look at it as falling into a trap. I recognized the game, and rather than entertain it, I walked away. I warned her it was coming; she didn’t care to listen.
At least in a traditional ghosting, there is a conscious decision. It’s heartless, yes, but it’s a decision. Veronica would rather sit passively and let things wither. She didn’t ask for a breakup, and she certainly didn’t fight to keep me.
It’s sad. I know her marriage ended on ugly terms, and I think somewhere along the way, she built a brick wall. The problem with those walls is that they keep out the bad guys, but they keep out the good ones, too.
Sometimes, no response is a response. I did my due diligence. I can lay my head down at night knowing I tried, I ran up against a wall, and I didn’t even make a dent.
Honestly, it’s her loss. We had a lot in common—maybe too much. If I had seen just one crack—just one attempt from her to meet me in that emotional space—I would have been the one doing the heavy lifting to bridge that gap. But you can’t build a bridge to someone who is busy staring at the ground, hoping you’ll disappear so they don’t have to.
When I first started seeing her, I realized I was dating another woman simultaneously—a blonde I’d met on an app. It was my senior year of high school all over again. Our yearbook theme that year was animation, and I remember a photo of me standing next to a life-sized Archie standee. Back then, it was just a gag. But as I found myself juggling these two women, I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony: I had found my own Betty and Veronica.
Well, the comic book ended today.
There’s no more Archie, no more Betty, and certainly no more Veronica. I’m closing the book on this particular story, putting the characters back on the shelf, and turning the page. It’s time to see what’s in the next issue.
Rebuilding a life takes grit, consistency, and a lot of ‘Option C’ thinking. Whether I’m closing in on 1,000 consecutive days of blogging or reflecting on the decade of work that brought me here, the mission remains the same: No glitz. Just the work. New to the blog? Start your journey here to see the blueprint and the ‘Tricorder’ perspective behind the rebuild.
Today’s post is inspired by the WordPress Daily Prompt. While I’ve taken the topic in my own direction for the Road to 1,000 Days, you can find more responses to today’s prompt HERE.
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AI art created by Google Gemini
The article “Rob on… Closing the Comic Book” first appeared on Rebuilding Rob
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