When he handed me the little USB drive wrapped in red ribbon, I thought it was the sweetest gift. “It’s for us,” he said with that boyish grin I’d fallen for years ago. “A soundtrack of our love.” We were celebrating our five-year anniversary, and I was touched that he’d taken the time to create something so personal. That night, I plugged it into my laptop, curled up on the couch, and pressed play. The first song made me smile. The second made me pause. By the third, my stomach dropped. They weren’t our songs. They were hers.
Backstory: Her name was Claire. She was his ex, the one who always seemed to linger in the background of our relationship like a ghost I couldn’t exorcise. He swore they were over, that she was just “a chapter from the past.” But I saw the way his face changed when her name came up. The way his friends sometimes slipped and mentioned her stories. The way he brushed off my insecurities with a quick, “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
And I wanted to believe him. So I did. Until the playlist.
The Build-Up: At first, I thought maybe it was a coincidence. The first track was one he’d once told me reminded him of his “college days.” But then came the next one, and the next. Songs I knew she loved—songs she used to post lyrics from on social media, songs I remembered seeing scribbled in her handwriting on the back of mix CDs she gave him.
By the time I reached track seven, my hands were shaking. It was their song, the one they used to dance to at parties. I remembered because I was there once, watching from across the room while they laughed, swaying together like no one else existed. Hearing it now, on a playlist that was supposed to celebrate us, felt like a knife twisting in my chest.
The Climax: When he got home, I confronted him. “This playlist,” I said, holding up the USB drive. “It’s not ours. It’s hers.”
His face went pale. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, Ryan. These songs—they’re hers. Not a single one is about us.” My voice cracked, but I forced the words out. “Was this some kind of sick joke?”
He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding my eyes. “I… I didn’t think you’d notice.”
I stared at him, stunned. “Didn’t think I’d notice? You gave me her songs for our anniversary. How could you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Finally, he sighed, shoulders slumping. “I guess… part of me never stopped thinking about her. The songs—they still remind me of… everything.”
My chest caved in. “And what about me? What about us?”
He couldn’t answer. The silence between us was louder than any music.
Resolution: That night, I deleted the playlist. Every track, every trace of her, gone. And the next morning, I packed a bag. He begged me to stay, swore it was just nostalgia, swore he still loved me. But I realized something: love that clings to the past isn’t love at all. It’s a shadow.
Months have passed since then. On our would-be anniversary, I made my own playlist. Not of songs tied to him, but of songs that belong to me—songs that make me feel alive, whole, free. And for the first time, the music doesn’t remind me of betrayal. It reminds me of myself.
Final Thought
The playlist he made for me wasn’t a celebration of our love—it was a confession he never had the courage to say out loud. And though it broke me in the moment, it also set me free. Because I deserve a love that writes its own soundtrack, not one haunted by someone else’s chorus.
