The Ex-Girlfriend Story
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4 minute video
Three years earlier
We met the way people do in cities like this—by accident, at a rooftop party neither of us really wanted to be at. She was standing by the edge, hair catching the neon glow, laughing with a group of friends about something I never heard. She looked so at ease, so unbothered by the chill or the noise, that I found myself drifting closer, drawn in by her gravity.
We talked for hours that night, about everything and nothing. She told me about her yoga practice, how she loved the feeling of her body stretching, the way her breath could anchor her in the present. I told her about my work, my music, the things I was still trying to figure out. She listened, really listened, and when she laughed, it felt like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Our first kiss happened on a street corner, after we’d wandered the city until dawn. She pressed her body against mine, her hands in my hair. It was electric, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are.
We fell hard, fast. Our days were filled with lazy mornings tangled in sheets, afternoons at techno parties where she’d lose herself in the music, and nights spent talking about the world—her passion for the climate, her dreams of making a difference, her need to feel everything, always. She was social, magnetic, the kind of person who made friends everywhere she went. I was quieter, content to orbit her sun.
The foot thing wasn’t something I ever planned to share. I’d always had a thing for feet—an obsession I kept tucked away, private and unspoken. With her, though, it was different. She had this way of making me feel safe, like I could show her the parts of myself I usually kept hidden.
The first time I hinted at it, I was nervous. We were lying on her bed after a long night out, her legs draped over my lap, her feet bare and perfect. I let my hands linger a little longer than usual, tracing slow circles along her arch. She caught me staring and grinned, wiggling her toes in my face.
“You’re into feet?” she teased, laughing in that bright, unfiltered way of hers. I felt my face flush, ready to pull away, but she didn’t let me. Instead, she pressed her foot against my chest, playful and curious.
“Show me,” she said, her voice softer now. “I want to know what you like.”
From that moment, something shifted. What started as a joke became a game, and then something more. She let me worship her feet, let me kiss and adore them, and soon she was the one guiding me—stretching her legs across my lap, pressing her toes to my lips, watching my reaction with a mix of amusement and delight. She found pleasure in it, too, in the way I surrendered to her, in the power it gave her. It became our secret ritual, a private world where I could be vulnerable and she could be in control.
She never let me forget how much she enjoyed it. And I never wanted her to.
But love, for us, was never simple. She craved freedom, new experiences, the thrill of the unknown. I wanted her, just her, but she wanted the world. We tried to make it work, tried to bend without breaking, but in the end, we snapped. She needed space. I needed her. So we let go.
The truth is, she was never easy to handle. Her emotions ran hot—sometimes intoxicating, sometimes overwhelming. She could be magnetic and wild, but just as quickly, she’d turn sharp, unpredictable. Arguments would flare out of nowhere, sparked by the smallest things. She’d accuse me of not understanding her, of holding her back, and then, in the next breath, demand all my attention. There were nights when her words cut deep—mocking, belittling, twisting my feelings until I questioned my own reality. She’d laugh off my hurt, call me dramatic, or insist I was overreacting, only to pull me close again when it suited her.
Sometimes, it felt like I was walking on eggshells, never sure which version of her I’d get. She’d make jokes at my expense in front of friends, then dismiss my discomfort as if I couldn’t take a joke. If I tried to talk about how I felt, she’d turn it around, making me feel guilty for even bringing it up. There were moments of tenderness, yes, but they were tangled up with manipulation and control—her need to be adored, to be the center of my world, even as she chased after new thrills and other people.
Looking back, I see how unfair it was—how much I gave, how little I got in return. But at the time, I was too caught up in her orbit to see it clearly. I wanted to believe the best of her, to make it work, even as she pushed me away and pulled me back in, over and over again. In the end, it was exhausting. Loving her meant losing pieces of myself, and when we finally let go, it was as much a relief as it was a heartbreak.