It started with a notification on my phone. A shared playlist, the kind he used to send me when we first started dating. The title read, For Us. My heart fluttered. It had been months since Ethan did something like that—months of short texts, distracted conversations, and late nights he couldn’t explain. For a moment, I let myself believe he was trying again, that maybe we were finding our way back.
I curled up on the couch, plugged in my headphones, and hit play. The first song made me smile—our first dance at that tiny dive bar. The second was from our road trip last summer, when we sang it at the top of our lungs. But then the third song started. And my blood ran cold.
It wasn’t ours. It was hers.
Backstory: Ethan had an ex, someone I’d always felt insecure about. Her name was Lauren, and though he swore they were long over, her shadow lingered. They’d been together for years, and their history clung to him like perfume you couldn’t quite wash off. I tried not to think about her, but late at night, when he smiled at his phone, I wondered.
And now, here she was—woven into our playlist.
I kept listening, my chest tight, as the songs played on. One after another, I realized most of them weren’t ours. They were theirs. Songs he never played with me, lyrics about memories I hadn’t shared. A whole world of love I wasn’t part of.
By the time I reached the last track, I was shaking. The title? Her Song. The one he told me once she had called “the soundtrack of their love.”
My phone slipped from my hand.
When Ethan came home that night, I confronted him. “Why did you send me this playlist?” I demanded, my voice sharp.
He blinked, surprised. “Because I thought you’d like it. It’s romantic.”
“Romantic?” I shoved the phone at him. “Half of these songs are hers. Do you think I don’t know? Do you think I don’t see it?”
His face went pale. “It’s just music,” he said weakly.
“Music is memory,” I snapped. “And every song you chose is a reminder that you’re still with her—in your head, in your heart. You sent me a love letter that wasn’t even mine.”
For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, quietly, he said, “Maybe because I don’t know how to let her go.”
The words gutted me.
I laughed bitterly, tears streaming down my face. “Then why am I here, Ethan? Why do you keep telling me you love me, when you’re still writing playlists for her?”
He reached for me, but I pulled away. Because the truth was already playing in my ears, over and over, in lyrics that weren’t meant for me.
That night, I deleted the playlist. But the songs? They haunt me still.
Final Thought
Love doesn’t always end with silence. Sometimes it lingers in melodies, in lyrics meant for someone else. A playlist can be a confession, even when no words are spoken. And the one he sent me told the truth louder than any argument ever could: his heart was never mine.
