Hey Reddit, throwaway for obvious reasons. I’ve been sitting on this for almost two years now, and I think I’m finally ready to type it out. It’s not a dramatic blow-up story with yelling or cheating or anything you’d see in a movie. It’s quieter than that. And somehow, that made it hurt more.
I (29F at the time, 31F now) had been with my boyfriend “Alex” (32M) for seven years. We met in college, moved in together right after graduation, got a dog, talked about marriage all the time. Everyone always said we were “relationship goals.” We finished each other’s sentences, had inside jokes no one else understood, and I genuinely thought he was my forever person.
For the first five years, it really felt like we were equals. We both had demanding jobs—he’s in tech, I’m in marketing—but we made time. Friday nights were sacred: takeout, a movie, no phones. We’d plan little weekend trips every couple of months. When one of us was stressed, the other dropped everything to listen. He used to send me random texts during the day just to say he was thinking about me. I kept screenshots of some of them because they made me smile so much.
Then, about three years ago, Alex got promoted to senior engineering lead at his startup. The money got a lot better, the title sounded impressive, and at first I was thrilled for him. He deserved it—he’s smart and works hard. But slowly, things started shifting.
It wasn’t sudden. It was death by a thousand tiny cuts.
First, the Friday movie nights turned into “I just need to finish this one thing, give me an hour,” which became three hours, which became him falling asleep on the couch with his laptop still open. Then Fridays just stopped happening altogether because “the team is counting on me.”
Weekends became “on-call” more often than not. He’d apologize, kiss my forehead, and say, “This sprint is brutal, babe. Once it’s shipped, things will calm down.” But the next sprint was always brutal too.
He stopped planning trips. I’d suggest something and he’d say, “Let me check my calendar,” then never follow up. Birthdays and anniversaries went from thoughtful surprises to last-minute dinner reservations he made on the way home from work.
The texts stopped. Not all at once—just fewer and fewer until they were only logistical: “Running late,” “Grab milk?” I’d send him something cute or flirty and get a heart emoji hours later, if anything.
I told myself it was temporary. Startups are intense. He was providing for our future. I picked up the slack—handled all the housework, walked the dog alone, planned everything social with our friends so he could just show up when he could. I didn’t want to add to his stress.
But I started feeling… invisible.
The moment it really hit me—the one I still replay in my head—was last year on my 30th birthday.
I’d been hinting for weeks that I wanted to do something special. Nothing crazy—just a weekend away, maybe to the coast. We hadn’t gone anywhere in over a year. He kept saying, “Sounds great, let’s plan it soon.”
The week of my birthday, I reminded him again. He said, “I’ll figure something out, promise.”
The day before my birthday, he texted me at lunch: “Hey, big investor demo tomorrow morning. Might have to pull an all-nighter to prep. Rain check on dinner?”
I said it was fine. I didn’t want to guilt him.
My actual birthday fell on a Saturday. I woke up hoping maybe he’d surprised me with plans. Nope. He was already at his desk when I got out of bed. He gave me a quick hug, said “Happy birthday, love you,” and went back to his call.
I spent the morning trying not to feel disappointed. Around noon, I asked if he wanted to grab lunch somewhere nice—just us. He said, “Can we do late dinner instead? I’m swamped.”
I ended up going to brunch with two girlfriends. They asked where Alex was. I lied and said he had a work thing.
That evening, I got dressed up anyway. Put on the dress he used to say was his favorite. Made myself excited for whatever “late dinner” meant.
At 8 p.m., he came out of his office, hair messy, eyes red from staring at screens. He looked at me, smiled tiredly, and said, “You look amazing. God, I’m sorry—I’m gonna need another hour or two. The demo deck still isn’t right. Order in whatever you want, okay? We’ll celebrate tomorrow, I swear.”
I just stared at him for a second. Something in me snapped—not angrily, just… quietly.
I said, “Alex, it’s my 30th birthday. Tomorrow it won’t be my birthday anymore.”
He looked genuinely surprised, like he’d lost track of days. Then he said, “Shit, I know, I’m the worst. Just let me fix this one thing and I’m yours all night.”
But I knew how it would go. “One thing” always became five things.
I told him, “It’s okay. Go finish your work.” Then I grabbed my keys and left.
I drove around for hours. Ended up parked by the river, crying in my car while wearing the dress I’d gotten excited to show him. That’s when it hit me like a ton of bricks:
I wasn’t a priority anymore. I hadn’t been for a long time.
And the worst part? He didn’t even seem to notice.
I wasn’t mad at his job. I was proud of him. But I realized I’d become background noise in his life—someone who managed the house and waited patiently while he chased the next big thing. I’d been telling myself that love means supporting someone no matter what, even if it means erasing your own needs. But that’s not love. That’s self-abandonment.
I went home around midnight. He was asleep on the couch, laptop still glowing. There was a Post-it on the fridge: “Happy birthday babe!! Love you so much. Breakfast tomorrow? x”
I took the dog for a walk at 1 a.m. and decided I was done waiting to matter.
We broke up two months later. It wasn’t explosive—he was shocked, kept saying he’d change, that he just needed to get through “this one last push.” But I’d heard that for years. I knew nothing would be different.
I moved out. Got my own place. Started therapy. Rediscovered hobbies I’d let fall away because I was always “available” for whatever time he could spare.
It’s been almost a year now since the breakup. Some days I miss the old us—the version from years ago when we were actually partners. But mostly, I feel… lighter. Like I can breathe.
I’m dating again, slowly. And the bar is higher now: If someone can’t make me a priority while life is busy, I walk. Because I finally know what it feels like to be one.
To anyone reading this who’s waiting for their person to “have more time later”—please don’t lose years of your life on “later.” You deserve to be someone’s priority now, not someday.
Thanks for reading. Needed to get this off my chest.
