An Open Letter To The Guy Who Took My Ghosting Virginity

by Annie Foskett

Dear Ghoster,

You were my first.

First ghoster, to be clear. None of the other firsts. (Except maybe my first time likening someone to Jon Snow on a first date.)

You were (are?) handsome. Bearded. Smart. Voting for Her. Insistent on coming to Greenpoint for our first date, despite your Manhattan address. A bona fide, borough-breaching unicorn.

We met via "The League" on the Internet, and at Brooklyn Barge Bar in real life. I was late due to hair bloat on a humid summer night. You were patient AF.

I liked your vibe; you liked the comedy videos I make. That was all very nice.

On our second date, you brought up what you were looking for. You weren't looking to "run away and get married" but you wanted something legit. You had recently been given the runaround by someone. I maybe said, “I feel you, man”, or something equally strange.

You weren't looking to 'run away and get married' but you wanted something legit.

You asked me what I was looking for. I got cagey; I said I didn't know. I was sort of seeing other people, mostly just having trouble making myself available.

We discussed fuckboys because... dinner conversation in 2016. You didn't seem like one. We still didn't go home together. (Hashtag lady.)

You trekked to Brooklyn for our first five dates.

I sassed you for it, wondering out loud if you had an apartment of your own. You did, on the cutest street in the West Village. You were just making it easier for me go to Drake yoga class and be showered at a normal, date-not-booty-call hour. You also didn't judge me for doing Drake yoga.

You also didn't judge me for doing Drake yoga.

You gave me compliments. You empathized with my late-twenties grouchiness. You (jokingly?) asked me to go to Greece with you. You (jokingly?) talked about the bungalow we'd get in LA if I decided to go to school there.

You were sweet to my friends, who thought you were the “hottest and nicest” and told me I "better not eff this up."

Once we hung out more, we had really good, er, chemistry.

You drunkenly told me that your mom would love me. I thought, "Wow, boys I date are never this into me." 

I shared a little, but not a lot.

I made you text first. When we were on dates, I texted people I shouldn't have from the bathroom. I lightly accused you of taking my debit card when I couldn't find it that one morning and it turned up in your pocket. (Really you had just closed my tab like a gentleman.)

Last time I saw you, we went to Red Farm and I poked a soup dumpling with my chopstick like an idiot even though, like, I know how to eat a soup dumpling. We had a blast bar hopping and ended the night with a sing (shout) along while jumping on your couch. That was fun.

The next day I left for a week long vacation. We chatted some, but not a lot. Then you went on your Euro Trip. More crickets. You got back and I had to text first, but you replied.

I asked if I was beating a dead horse. You said I wasn't at all. I asked if you wanted to go to a concert with me. You told me that it sounded fun and you'd let me know once you found out if you'd be on a work trip, which would be by tomorrow.

"Tomorrow" came without any texts. A week later, I followed up. The night of the concert came. Still nothing. 

OH. So that's ghosting. Got it, cool, totally chill, no prob. 

OH. So that's ghosting. Got it, cool, totally chill, no prob.

We weren't meant to be or anything like that, but real talk: ghosting hurts.

I haven't barraged you with angry, Tito's-fueled texts yet, so that's good.

Somehow during two months of getting to know each other we never followed each other on social media, and thus, I have no idea what happened to you. I hope you're okay. I am pretty certain that you are -- the text says "Delivered".

I've had dating end before (a lot) but usually there is some communication, some “haunting”. My friend asked me the other night what happened to you. 

"I don't know! I don't think I did anything!"

Which is true. I didn't do anything.

I didn't make an effort, didn't stop talking to other people. I didn't not give you a hard time. I didn't do a good job taking real steps to end my forever singledom. Straight up, I would've ghosted me too.

When Game of Thrones first came back last season, a friend joked about getting "Jon Snowed" rather than "ghosted" -- like when you actually don't know if someone is dead or alive because they stop talking to you so abruptly.

Well, that's LOLz now. Are you there, Jon Snow? It's me, Kimmy.

If you're reading this, the unnecessarily specific details about our dates guarantee that you know who you are. Feel free to let me know what happened, you know, so I don't spiral too hard in therapy.

You've got my digits!

All the best (for real, not in a sassy way),