dinosaurs and distance

I just read an article about a new term circling TikTok: "avoidant discard." Although it's not rooted in formal psychology, it can be explained by it. What made my ears perk about it was that I've lived it. It's the silence, the unanswered questions, and the ever-present ache that makes you wonder: how did we get here? What made me begin writing was the thought of why I should even care to understand it when it's already hurt me so deeply. I think it's great to know the source of an issue and the reason behind a happening, however, if I am the one being affected by such a thing, why should I care about why so and so decided to hurt me?

Like most internet trends, the term became a mirror. Let me set the scene. I was talking to this guy—let's call him T-rex. T-rex was great until he wasn't. We matched on Tinder in January and we spoke quite consistently for the better part of the year, always alluding to one another that we wanted to hang out but never actually making any solid plans. At some point, I got tired of that dynamic—even though our conversations were always good and we always had "virtual chemistry," I was just at a point in my life where I needed more. So, one day, when we had actually made plans to hang out, T-rex ended up falling asleep on his couch, so I decided to cut my losses and move on. That was until he found me on Hinge.

When we reconnected on Hinge, it felt serendipitous, like fate—or maybe just Hinge's algorithm. I decided to give him one last chance, and by October, we finally met. Things felt more serious after that. He texted me every morning, and we spoke throughout the day, though the semi-distance made regular meetups challenging.

One day, T-rex disappeared. I was worried, so I reached out to one of his friends—who had no idea who I was. Which led to me receiving a follow request from a woman who turned out to be his girlfriend of TEN YEARS! He'd said he wanted to talk to me that day but took too long, so I ended up speaking to her instead. He apologized profusely, and despite my better judgment, I forgave him, giving him time to reflect and grieve. But as things dragged on, the silence became unbearable, and my anxiety spiraled out of control.

After very brief instances of communication, I sent him what I thought would probably be my last text to him because I was fed up with all the mystery and the silence. I poured my heart out and made it very clear that I was not going to reach out again if I didn't hear from him in the next couple of days—what hurt most wasn't just the silence; it was the way he dangled hope in front of me; every half-hearted text felt like a breadcrumb meant to keep me in his orbit without ever giving me clarity—he replied almost immediately and we began repairing our "relationship," with him promising to be more communicative and not leave me in the dark again.

For a while, things felt like they were improving. We made plans to see each other on the last day of my semester because afterward, I'd be going home for Christmas. From the moment we made the plans up until the day of, something was telling me that he'd be a no-show—and I was right. He claimed he had woken up late and missed the bus into the city.

For as long as I can remember, I've been masking—studying people's habits, speech, and reactions to better pick up on cues I'd otherwise miss and to have the tools to know how to react adequately to certain situations. It's second nature now, almost like a survival skill. Masking made it easier for me to pick up on the red flags—the subtle shifts in his tone, the vague excuses, the way he avoided making plans. Yet, my anxiety made me second-guess myself. I'd convince myself that I was overanalyzing, that I was reading too much into things when, in reality, my instincts were right all along.

Because of this, when we were making plans and he told me "I'll see when the time comes" or "I'll figure it out later," alarm bells started ringing in my ears. Whenever we made plans, we usually would iron out all the details because of transportation into the city, skipping lectures in my case, and taking a day off from work in his. T-rex never showed up, and for my own peace of mind, I chose to believe his excuse.

I also started noticing a few things. His follower count was going up at a rapid pace, and it mainly consisted of women. Another thing I noticed was that those very consistent morning texts were no longer arriving in the morning, they started feeling like an after-thought. He already knew that we needed to have a serious conversation about our situation and what we wanted and I think he might've been running from that and avoiding me as well.

As his followers went up, he started to become more and more distant. This was a person that I spoke to freely and openly about everything because he gave me that opening and he gave me the support I needed but when it came to his own life, I began realizing I knew almost nothing. He didn't open up about much, I didn't know his friendship dynamics, what kind of relationship he had with his mother—I didn't know any of the things that shaped him to be the way he was or anything significant about him. And when he wanted to let me know that he wasn't okay it was always "meh" or "the numbness is hitting"—this one because of his BPD. All I could do was be supportive and give space when it felt like he needed it because otherwise, he'd just become unresponsive.

All of this was taking a toll on me, so I began cutting back on how much of myself I was giving. But because I'm not naturally like that, after a while I did send him a message explaining why I had been distant—mind you, at this point, we were talking every day still, but it was only a few messages and nothing noteworthy. The message was on a Monday and he never replied. By Wednesday, I had sent another message, this time longer and again, pouring my heart out asking him to be honest and communicate with me. He never replied. By Friday, in the middle of a screening of Nosferatu, I sent him a final courtesy message: "I guess your silence says it all. I won't be reaching out again, best of luck with everything." He never replied. A week later, I found his profile on Hinge.

I'm sure you're aware, just as I am, of how painful it is to witness someone you care deeply about slowly pull away, without rhyme or reason. I get it, we all have different attachment styles, and a lot of us have a fear of emotional intimacy or being vulnerable. Sometimes it is really hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that a lot of people—and I mean men mostly because that has been my experience—lack the self-awareness, and the emotional intelligence to face these situations head-on. Regardless of it feeling like you're exposing yourself, you have to realize there is a very real person on the other side of the coin who is being subjected to this emotional torture. I'd respect a person so much more if they were upfront and just told me "Hey, this is too much for me, I don't think I can do this" over someone who is breadcrumbing attention and affection enough to keep me invested but never enough to address whatever underlying issue we may be facing.

In my situation with T-rex, after I found out about the girlfriend and I gave him some time to reflect I told him—not once but twice—that the option to tell me to take a hike was on the table, we didn't have to fix things if he felt he wasn't ready for anything. Twice I said that and twice he told me that he really liked me, that he wanted to be in my life and he wanted me in his.

Looking back, I realize that my compassion and patience were strengths—but they can't come at the expense of my boundaries. I gave T-rex grace, space, and countless opportunities to communicate, but he never reciprocated. At some point, I had to choose myself. I had to accept that his inability to show up for me wasn't a reflection of my worth but of his own limitations.

The article that sparked this was about why "avoidant discard" was worse than ghosting and I couldn't agree more. Ghosting makes things pretty clear of where you stand, regardless of things being unresolved—it tells you: this is where you start moving on because there's nothing left. "Avoidant discard," though, is a slow, torturous process. They breadcrumb you—just enough to keep you hoping but never enough to provide closure. You're left in limbo, obsessing over their silence and questioning your worth. With T-rex, this uncertainty consumed me. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and my anxiety became unbearable. Every day felt like waiting for a response that would never come. And worst of all, I couldn't grieve the relationship because it wasn't really over.

After giving so much of myself—often with his encouragement—after being so open, and so honest, all I ever wanted from him was transparency. Instead, he watched me become invested emotionally and then abandoned me. To me, it serves no purpose to understand where he is coming from, or what underlying condition he may be affected by because I believe in treating people with respect. If I have any sort of respect for a person the least I could—especially after watching them pour their heart out to me—is to say something, even if I know that's not what they want to hear.

The hardest lesson I've learned—or perhaps am still learning—is that closure doesn't come from the person who hurt you. It's supposed to come from within, but how do you find closure when every thread feels frayed and nothing makes sense? "Avoidant discard" may not be rooted in psychology, but I can tell you it's real and it's painful. It's the unanswered messages, the deliberate silence, the deliberate cruelty of keeping someone in limbo, dangling just enough to stop you from letting go but not enough to let you hold on.

I tried to come up with a positive note to end this on but I don't have a pretty bow to tie around this story—and it would be dishonest of me to do so. I haven't reached a place of peace, and I'm not sure I will anytime soon. I still replay the what-ifs in my head. I still have days where I wonder why I wasn't good enough for him to stay, why I wasn't worth a simple, honest goodbye. I still think about how easily he turned me into a ghost while I was still alive.

People like T-rex walk away unscathed, leaving behind the wreckage they caused without so much as a backward glance. All the while, I'm left picking up the pieces, trying to make sense of something that was never meant to be understood. And maybe it doesn't need to make sense. Maybe I'll never get the closure I want, and maybe that's the real heartbreak—the emptiness that lingers, forcing me to keep carrying him in my heart even when I don't want to.

I wish I could end this on a hopeful note, but this isn't a hopeful story—it never is when you're discarded without explanation. It hurts. I'm hurt. And right now, that's all there is.