Friendship between two people can be a beautiful thing. Sublime, even. You meet for coffee, support each other through rough patches, share secrets you swore you’d never tell another soul. But let’s be honest — friendship with an ex? That’s a rare bird. Not impossible, just… rare. Like snow in the Sahara.

Because how exactly do you go from being everything in someone’s life to becoming almost nothing — and be okay with it?

Nope. I’m not wired for that kind of downgrade. I can’t. And truthfully, I don’t even want to be friends with my ex.

Friend request: denied. Heart limitations apply.

I know, I know. I’m supposed to be full of goodness and grace, bursting with compassion and altruism — the kind of emotional maturity Angelina Jolie has while saving the planet barefoot in a linen dress. But to reach that inner peace where we’re both sipping tea and chuckling about “the old days”? Well, I’d probably need two to five more years of cognitive behavioral therapy and a personal reading list of at least thirty self-help books. And even then, deep down, I bet even Osho didn’t stay friends with his ex.

They say when two ex-lovers stay friends, it’s either because they were never really in love… or they still are. And let me be clear: we were in love. But if there’s even a microscopic, subatomic possibility that we still are?
Then no, thank you.
Also, does the sheer urge to vaporize your ex with a single look count as love? Asking for a friend.

Since forever — since humanity existed and my mama gave birth to me — people have broken up due to “incompatibility,” which is basically a polite umbrella term for jealousy overdrive, chronic cheating (a fancy cousin of infidelity), anger issues, and more often than not, excessive alcohol consumption.

And let’s be real: when you break up, no one just skips off into the sunset humming a happy tune. No. There are wounds, raw and red. There’s frustration the size of your apartment. There’s heartbreak at Code Red levels. So tell me: how, in the holy name of emotional survival, do you heal your lovely, once-warm-and-cozy inner world by stepping straight into a “new friendship” with the same person who blew it all up? A friendship with shared coffee dates and mutual support and — God help me — intimate little confessions?

Meanwhile, all you really want is to inflict one good bruise in an inconspicuous location where the sun does not shine. Nothing serious, just enough pain to equal a 16-hour labor without anesthesia, a midwife, or moral support.

It’s complicated. It’s uncomfortable. And honestly? It’s a bit absurd.

So no, I won’t be applying for the “mature, evolved ex” badge any time soon. I’m not promising to try.
Some connections are better left archived — not rekindled.