The ghosts who haunt us
Is it possible to be friends with the ghost of your past... your ex?
Two nights ago, I was texting back and forth with my friend, Ariel1. We were talking about how strange it is, the way some people just stay in your life, almost like ghosts who linger long after the romance has died.
We had gotten onto the subject because Ariel had just had lunch with her ex, and she, as per usual, ‘cause she’s wise like that, said something that stuck with me: their relationship, now that the pressure of romance was gone, felt like it was finally at its best. There was no more obligation, just this pure form of love and care for each other. Not romantic love, but something different, like the ghost of what had been, reshaped into something gentler.
That made me think of my own ghosts, my own exes, Théo* and Hugh*.
After my breakup in January, I fled to Paris, heartbroken and disoriented. I hadn’t seen Théo, my ex before Hugh, in a long time. But when we reconnected2, it felt like a natural progression from the ghosts of my past to those I was still grappling with.
When Théo sat down, it felt strangely natural—as if we were maybe… friends?
I thought my time with Théo would be brief, but one drink became two, then two became three. I was meant to visit my friend Gaz3 on set (she’s an assistant director—and an amazing one at that), and I was now running late to see her. Théo came with me.
Gaz knew Hugh—and knew that I had just broken up with him—so when Théo and I arrived on set, she looked surprised. Who is this guy? I could hear her think. It was then I realized that she didn’t know Théo at all—Gaz and I met after we had broken up.
Shit, okay, how do I explain this? I wondered. How do I introduce him?
“This is…,” I began.
I hesitated.
Théo was my ex, yes, but also something else. A friend? Not quite. “Ex” felt too final, too simplistic. So, what was he?
This essay is my attempt to figure that out. To define what it really means to keep someone in your life when the relationship has changed, to live with the ghosts of those we once loved, and to see if we can make space for them in the present.
A GHOST WHOSE PRESENCE YOU CANNOT SEE BUT CAN CERTAINLY STILL FEEL
The thing no one tells you about breakups is that sometimes the relationship doesn’t actually end. Sure, the romance is over, but the person—more like a ghost whose presence you cannot see but can certainly still feel—lingers, woven into your life like a patch on an old quilt you can’t quite throw away, comforting yet no longer necessary. The transformation of that bond—especially with an ex you loved deeply—can be, well, complicated.
THE ONE WHO LOOKED LIKE ALAIN DELON IF DELON WAS IN THE SEX PISTOLS INSTEAD OF PLEIN SOLEIL
Take Théo, for example. Parisian, effortlessly cool, and my first real love. We met in Paris when I was 20, at a party I almost didn’t go to, hosted by a tiny, slightly angry French-Algerian friend-of-a-friend named Yohan. My friend Ariel was visiting. We weren’t sure if we were up for an evening of lukewarm seizes4 and Sorbonne philosophy undergraduates, but, because the party was close to my apartment in the 5th arrondissement—and, after all, we were 20 and in Paris, so what else should we have been doing?—we went.
When Ariel and I arrived, Yohan’s tiny living room was warm from the body heat of two dozen French strangers and buzzing with low conversations and that kind of muted Parisian jazz that feels too cool to be real.
When I saw Théo across the room, I felt my stomach do this weird flip, as if it was caught in a Chinese finger trap, trying to turn itself inside out—a feeling which, let’s be honest, was probably more to do with the cheap wine Ariel and I had nervously chugged in a café on the Rue des Écoles before the party, but still.
There was something magnetic about him. He was tall, rakish, and thin, with deep-set eyes ringed by shadow. I remember thinking he looked like Alain Delon if Delon had been asked to join the Sex Pistols instead of the cast of Plein Soleil5.
He was wearing patent leather Chelsea boots (of course). I walked over and kicked them, asking, “C’est quoi, tes bottes?”6 Théo laughed—this soft, surprised laugh—and from that moment, we were on some strange, inevitable trajectory. Even now, years later, I remember thinking, This is it.
Three years of navigating each other’s quirks, tempers, and our early twenties’ ambitions passed by. At the time, I didn’t know we’d ever end, but maybe some part of me did—that creeping awareness that your futures might not align, even if you don’t want to admit it.
During the pandemic, we were separated for months, with me riding it out in New York with my divorcing parents and Théo staying with his family in Paris. When I finally had the chance to rejoin him in Paris—his city, our city—to pursue a Master’s in public relations, I decided instead to move to Ireland, a country to which I had no ties, and pursue a Master’s in business management7.
In the lead-up to my Hibernian move, we avoided discussing my impulsive decision. Théo wanted to see me as soon as I entered European air space, but I relented, citing that, “Je dois me rendre à Dublin par moi-même, sans laisser tes empreintes et ta marque sur la ville, Théo.”8
Instead, I visited him in Paris that October. Standing in the doorway to his apartment, he kissed me, but there was something different about it.
After our lips parted, he took a step back. “Ouais, écoute, Antonia, j’en ai parlé à ma psy,”—the one I recommended he go to—“et il m’a fait réaliser que je ne t’aime plus.”9
I felt the warped parquet floor shift under me.
I had recommended he see a therapist in the first place. In hindsight, I don’t know why I thought it would go any differently. I didn’t cry right away. I just stood there, numb, as if this couldn’t possibly be happening.
“Et tu as pratiquement déménagé en Irlande sans me le dire,” he continued with that specific, mostly uncharming Parisian bluntness, “donc il est clair que tu ne m’aimes plus non plus.”10
As his words washed over me, I could still feel the remnants of our kiss—the last one—lingering on my lips.
I walked out of Théo’s apartment in a daze. The Paris streets I knew so well suddenly felt colder, smaller. It’s funny how breakups warp your sense of space.
THE ONE I THOUGHT I’D MARRY UNTIL WE FOUGHT IN FRONT OF THE BASILICA SANTO SPIRITO
Where Théo and I drifted apart gently, my relationship with Hugh was anything but gentle. With Théo, our love had faded quietly, but with Hugh, everything was intense—love, fights, and ultimately, the end.
Four months after Théo and I broke up, I met Hugh in Dublin. That was a whirlwind in its own way—three years of intensity that I once thought would end in marriage. We even lived together, first in Brussels and then in London.
For a while, I thought I had it all figured out with Hugh. He was smart, thoughtful, and we had this fiery chemistry that made me feel like maybe this—Hugh and me—was it. We loved one another deeply, intensely.
But with that intensity came… well, a lot of other intensity. The kind that blows up into terrible, knock-down-drag-out fights, where insecurities become centre stage. It wasn’t healthy, but for a long time, it felt like that was the only way to love each other.
We fought about everything—small things, big things, things that didn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things. But it always came back to the same thing: neither of us felt fully secure in what we had.
One of the worst fights we had was in a trattoria in Florence over something stupid, something neither of us can even remember. Drunk off red wine and rage, I remember storming out and running down the black basalt-paved street, sobbing. Hugh had refused to chase after me; when he finally found me, I was distraught and so was he.
We both said things we couldn’t take back.
Our sharp words quickly spiralled into this huge, ugly screaming match, the two of us shouting so loudly in front of the Basilica Santo Spirito that it alarmed two well-meaning Polish tourists enjoying gelato across the piazza. Seeing Hugh’s hands on my shoulders, they threatened to call the police.
It was awful.
When the next morning came, we acted as if it had never happened. Instead of talking about the night before, we sat on our hotel’s terrace overlooking the Arno Valley, reading one another the funniest headlines from the paper. Yet again, Hugh and I had taken a silent oath, wordlessly vowing never to speak about our fight in the Piazza Santo Spirito—or to figure out what it might mean for us.
At the time, I didn’t know that argument would be the final catalyst for our breakup five months later, because, if I’m being painfully honest, this was how it always was with us, be it in our mouse-infested flat in London or in front of a Brunelleschi basilica in Florence: the smallest spark would ignite a wildfire between us, scorching our relationship and reducing it to ash.
In the past, we had always managed to rebuild it. But after that fight, it was as if we were both Roman soldiers after a battle, spreading salt over the earth—no new life would ever grow and no amount of rebuilding could save what we had scorched.
THE NOW-RHYTHMS OF MY EX-RELATIONSHIPS
So, what does it mean to keep an ex in your life?
With Théo, we’ve settled into a strange but comforting rhythm. Our friendship feels effortless now. We don’t speak every day, but every few weeks we’ll check in. When we see each other—which we do almost every time I’m in Paris—it’s easy. Easier, even, than when we were together.
The love between Théo and I is still there, but it’s quieter. It’s different. We’ll always have Paris, but not in the romantic, clichéd way. More in the, “I know you in a way that no one else ever will” way.
With Hugh, it’s different. It is not quiet between us—it is silent. But that silence is a necessary one.
I sometimes struggle with how it came to this. It didn’t happen all at once.
At first, Hugh and I tried to stay in touch, but each time we talked, it felt like reopening a wound. Eventually, I stopped replying. I realised, almost without meaning to, that we were drifting further and further apart.
The moment I truly let go of our relationship wasn’t some big revelation. No, it was more a gentle understanding that slowly came over me one day as I scrolled past our text conversation in my phone, searching for a friend—well, more than a friend, if I’m being honest—with whom I wanted to share some “big news.”11
After seeing Hugh’s name in my phone, I realised that the compulsion I once had to share everything about my life with him was gone. That’s when I knew it was over.12
I REALLY LIKE YOU, BUT CAN YOU PLEASE STOP BRINGING UP YOUR EX BOYFRIEND?
Staying friends with an ex—especially one you loved deeply—forces you to redefine what love even means. Love doesn’t just disappear. It shifts, evolves. You still care, but you don’t need them in your life the way you once did.
With Théo, it works because we’re both content with the way things are now. He’s seen the messy parts of me, and he’s still here. In some ways, that’s more intimate than what we had before. But not every ex fits into that neat little box of friendship.
Of course, this brings up the delicate question of how a friendship with your ex can affect your future relationships.
There’s always that side-eye from a new partner when they find out you’re still in touch with your ex. It’s happened to me more than once—that subtle glower—when I mention Théo’s name in passing to someone I’m newly dating.
I can’t blame them, really. There’s always that lingering suspicion that maybe there’s still something there.
To be honest, I sometimes wonder what I’d say if someone flat-out asked, “Are you sure you’re over him?” The truth is, I am.
But, if you dig deeper, you’ll realise that that truth is more complicated, because I also know that Théo will always be in my life in some way. He isn’t just a ghost from my past; he’s real and existing in my present and will continue to exist in my future.
I don’t feel the need to defend it, but explaining it—really explaining it—is hard. I mean, how do you tell someone that your old love didn’t die, it just... shifted?
THE EXES WHO SHAPE US, THE GHOSTS WHO HAUNT US
Ultimately, staying friends with an ex is about learning to live with the ghosts of your past relationships. It’s knowing that they still matter, even if the nature of your connection has changed.
Théo and I aren’t the same people we were when we met at that party in Paris, but we still understand each other in ways that no one else ever will. Hugh and I—well, we were never meant to stay in each other’s lives. That chapter had to close.
Whether you keep an ex around or let them fade into the background, they change you. They are a part of your story. They still matter, even if the nature of your connection has changed. The love remains, even if it’s different now. Maybe, in some strange way, that’s what love is, really—the creation of those imprints, even when the love itself has shifted.
In the end, these ghosts—my exes—have left their mark. They’ve shaped me, not just in how I view relationships, but in how I understand myself—what I’ll fight for, what I can let go of, and what I need.
As we move through life, those ghosts will continue to haunt us. But maybe that’s not so bad. It’s the echoes of those past loves that help us understand who we’ve become, what we can leave behind, and what we’ll carry forward.
*Names have been changed.
Hi Ariel, I love you to the moon and back!
Why I decided to do this, I don’t really know—maybe I was looking for closure, maybe I was looking for comfort, maybe it was just a particularly bleak January made even bleaker by my fresh breakup? You tell me.
Hi Gaz, I also love you to the moon and back!
French slang for Kronenbourg 1664 beer—the more you know!
So what I’m telling you is that—looks-wise, at least—he was my type.
Translation: “What are these boots?”
Neither choice made sense—PR? Business management? What business did I, a 23-year-old woman with a BA in French philosophy and art history, have studying either? But so goes the panic borne from the pandemic.
Translation: “I must discover Dublin by myself, without you leaving your imprints and your mark on the city, Théo.” (Also, God, what a rude little twat I was at 23!)
Translation: “Yeah, listen, Antonia, I spoke with my therapist, and he made me realise that I don’t love you anymore.”
Translation: “And you practically moved to Ireland without telling me, so it’s clear that you don’t love me anymore, either.”
The news, delivered via voice note: “Hey yeah, so I just saw a terrier who looked exactly like Steve Buscemi. Then I saw the owner, and I swear it was Steve Buscemi. But what is Steve Buscemi doing walking along the Regent’s Canal? Actually, ha ha, never mind. Probably wasn’t him, but the terrier is surely a reincarnation, even though Buscemi’s not dead—wait, actually, can you Google that? To be discussed over dinner.” To this day, we still don’t know if it was Steve Buscemi or not, but I like to think it was.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still think about Hugh sometimes, wondering how it all went so wrong.
I miss pieces of him—like the way he’d make coffee in the morning, that first sip he’d always give me, or how he’d extend his elbow and ask for a link, or how, whenever he was back in Dublin, he’d send me a photo of “our bench” on the Grand Canal, the third one down from Lock C5 near Ranelagh.
But the rest of it? The fights, the tension, the constant feeling of being on edge—it’s almost a relief that we don’t speak anymore.
In the end, it’s sad. But, too, in the end, it’s what had to happen.
Sometimes, some people—people like Hugh—leave a mark so intense that keeping them around feels like inviting guaranteed chaos into your life. So, for Hugh and me, there’s no middle ground. We loved hard, but we fought even harder, and keeping that relationship alive in any form just isn’t possible. At least for now.
“reshaped into something gentler.” Just beautiful 💕 wish I could get to this ping