Let Me Show You How a Woman Leaves

Maggie had never been the type to melt easily, not even when the words were sweet or the attention consistent, and definitely not after years of filtering through charm that never turned into effort. But this one had been different or at least he pretended to be. He didn’t come in with flirty texts or one-word replies. He came with calm consistency. He called. He asked how her day was. He listened when she spoke about her family, her work, her dog, her triggers. He didn’t ask for pictures. He didn’t push for intimacy. He didn’t test her boundaries. He just… showed up.

And for a woman like Maggie, that was enough to make her suspicious. Enough to make her pace the kitchen with her phone in her hand wondering, “What’s the catch?” Because there’s always a catch. But weeks passed. Then months. And the catch never came or maybe it came dressed as comfort, because that’s exactly how it started to unravel.

The calls that once opened her mornings and closed her nights? Gone. The sweet pet name hon, babe, whatever, it faded too, replaced by plain sentences that read like a stranger’s text. And the man who once carved time out of his day like she was the dessert he couldn’t wait to taste? He started sounding like he was checking off a chore.

No fight happened. No grand argument. Just a slow, silent shift that women know all too well. And Maggie felt it. You know that feeling when someone’s still technically around but already gone? That. That dull ache in your chest when you realize you’re talking to someone who no longer looks at you with curiosity. The little goodbyes don’t always come with words sometimes they arrive as delayed responses, half-hearted check-ins, or skipped calls with the excuse of, “Sorry, been so busy.”

Busy. It’s always “busy” when a man stops being invested but doesn’t have the courage to say it. And the opposite that they have all the time in the world when they’re interested. 

The thing is, Maggie had been fine before he came along. She had her own world spinning. A quiet kind of contentment that came from years of learning not to rely on anyone. She paid her own bills. Wiped her own tears. Showed up for herself so often that being alone didn’t scare her instead it comforted her.

So when she made the effort to visit him hours on the road, leaving early, pushing through exhaustion, with a heart full of hope and a carefully chosen outfit she didn’t do it because she was desperate. She did it because she cared. Because she thought maybe, just maybe, he’d make the effort too.

But instead of planning something special, he gave her the most convenient offer imaginable: “You can swing by where I’m working if you want. I’ll just be around.”

Nothing says “I see your value” like suggesting a woman in heels and lip gloss come say hi near a warehouse parking lot, next to some loading docks and a gravel path where nobody’s ever meant to feel special.

That moment did something to Maggie. Not because she wanted a fancy restaurant. Not because she expected fireworks or candlelight. But because effort isn’t expensive it’s intentional. And his lack of it spoke louder than any excuse could cover.

So she said it. “I need more than this.”

His reply? A shrug through the phone. “Good luck. No problem.” You know what that is? That’s a man who’s been too comfortable for too long. That’s someone who thought she’d never actually leave. That’s someone who forgot what it looks like when a strong woman finally stops making excuses for a weak man.

Weeks went by. Silence. She didn’t text. Didn’t call. She went on with her life. Reorganized her space. Cleaned out her closet. Rewatched the old shows she used to binge before he distracted her with his “you’re different” nonsense.

Then one random day, a song came on in the car the kind that hits you hard in the ribs, uninvited. It reminded her of a conversation they once had. A stupid inside joke. A moment she wished had been real.

So like a woman with a soft spot she hated herself for, she reached out. A text. Just one. That’s all it took. Back in the loop. Back to the calls. Back to the small glimmers of attention that once felt like affection. He even mentioned wanting to see her talked about plans to come her way when he had a break in obligations, hinted at the idea of spending real time together, like he’d thought it through.

Maggie didn’t fall for it this time, but her hope did.

Because when someone looks you in the eye even through a screen and says, “I’m coming, just wait,” a tiny part of you starts cleaning the house again. You start shaving your legs again. You start picturing what it would be like if they actually meant it this time.

And then? Silence, again. That same nauseating stillness. No updates or follow-through. Not even a damn “Hey, I’m swamped, but I’ll call you soon.” Just nothing.

This is what inconsistency does. it doesn’t just disappoint it destabilizes. You start wondering if you imagined the whole thing. If you were too needy. Too distant. Too honest. If your “I need more” was too demanding. But here’s the thing Maggie finally reminded herself of, late one night, sitting on the edge of her bed with her phone flipped upside down like it was the enemy:

She didn’t ask for too much. She asked the wrong man. And that’s where the fire lit back up.
She wasn’t angry that he didn’t love her. She was angry that he acted like he could. That he played the part long enough to lower her walls, only to ghost her like she was some summer fling.

What men like John don’t understand is this. You don’t get to audition for the role of a good man and then vanish in the second act. You don’t get to feed a woman consistency and warmth, then leave her wondering if she hallucinated it. You don’t get to be tender and present until it’s inconvenient.

And Maggie? She doesn’t chase. If he wants her, he knows where she is. But she won’t be waiting. She’s already rerouting her energy to the life that existed before him a life that was quieter, sure, but stable, peaceful, and full of her own rhythm.

Because a woman like her doesn’t fall often. But when she does and you fumble her she doesn’t yell. She doesn’t beg. She just leaves.

And the next time you think of her, you’ll remember the sound of your own silence. And how loud it was when she didn’t answer back.