I said “Fuck” for the first time on Thursday.  I am 29 years old. It was Thanksgiving.

I saved my F-word virginity for you, Douglas James Warren. I saved it for you. I’ll never forget what I yelled to into my phone as I left a message for you, a message you may never listen to.

“Fuck you! Fuck you! I am so upset, Doug. I can’t believe you. Fuck you!!”

How can someone who loves me so much, hurt me more than I can bear?

When we broke up, we promised each other that we would do everything we could to stay friends. Maybe not best friends, but good friends. Maybe forever.

I asked you to never, ever unfriend me on Facebook again. I told you that it would kill me if you did. You promised me that you wouldn’t.

You unfriended me three times when we were “just friends” because you were afraid of heartache, because you couldn’t see me with another man. It was childish, but I forgave you. You loved me that much.

Now that you’ve unfriended me a fourth time, it’s me with an aching heart. You broke your promise. Emotional pain is the worst kind of pain. No band-aid can fix this wound.

Not only did you unfriend me, but you have also most likely blocked my number. That’s what makes this hurt even more than a broken promise, a fourth unfriending.

We were texting back and forth about your father because he has cancer and had just undergone his first chemo treatment. I had just lost my grandfather to cancer. I know what it’s like. I wanted to let you know you weren’t alone. I wanted to tell you to not make my same mistakes, as I lost a grandfather I barely knew.

You texted me your girlfriend had been in a funk ever since I picked up my dress at your apartment – the dress that had disappeared in your closet. Even though it had been her idea for me to drop by. I texted back that I had been in a funk, too, because you had been “weird.”

At your apartment, we talked about your father, your new band, my work and my knee. I let you know I was healing after our break up, but that I wasn’t back to good yet.  That I still want to puke every time I think about meeting your new Sara(h). I told you: “I will get there, but I’m not there yet.”

I had asked you if you still thought we could be friends. You said yes, of course. You said you’d like to meet up for coffee on the weekends sometimes to talk. I said that would be nice.

As I left your apartment, I told you that I (still) love you. You told me that you (still) love me. It’s become our way of saying we’re OK, that we’ll get off this roller coaster, like all the rides we’ve been on before. It’s not the same love we had during our relationship, but it’s what we had left.

Back to that text. I wanted an opportunity to talk through that funk, but not through texts. The last thing you texted me was: “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is the day that never comes.

You didn’t call me the next day. You never called me back.

I called you a week after “tomorrow” to tell you through tears that I had almost died that day. I called you once, I called you twice, just in case you hadn’t gotten to the phone in time. You didn’t pick up, so I texted you “Call me?” You were the friend I turned to when I got into a car crash, you were the friend I turned to when I fell in the parking lot, and you were the friend I tried to turn to when I had a near-death experience.

A week later, when you still hadn’t called me back, I texted you again. I asked you if you were avoiding me. I’m not your priority anymore, but I thought you’d at least get back to me, eventually. I thought you’d want to know that I was OK. I hadn’t been run over by a car, but I could have been. It was a traumatic event.

That’s when it hit me: You weren’t just avoiding me, you had burned our bridge.

I’m a reasonable woman. I am not a nightmare ex-girlfriend.

I think my picking up my dress freaked your girlfriend out. I think she gave you the line: “It’s either her or me.” I’d expect you to choose her. She’s your girlfriend. Except, I’d also expect you to call to let me know that we needed a break, that we needed some space. That your girlfriend needed more time before she’s OK with our staying friends.

We’ve been friends four or five years. I’ve lost count. We bonded over “Survivor” and misfit childhoods, of all things. I helped you through your divorce, you helped me through my anxiety. We were there for each other. We were best friends.

As your best friend, I coached you on newspaper design, I babysat your daughter for free, I supported and promoted your band, I wrote a letter of recommendation to help you get a new job, I helped you find and move into a new apartment and I convinced you to get your first colonoscopy at age 52.

After your colonoscopy, you told me: “You may have just saved my life.” I replied: “Let’s hope that I didn’t.”

Now we’re not even Facebook friends.

I am sincerely trying to heal from our breakup, but it’s hard to do when you moved on to a new relationship so quickly – with another, younger Sara(h). You told me it would take you two years to get over me, but in two months you were already Facebook official with another woman. That was harder than the breakup itself. I found out on my sister’s wedding day.

That call I never got? I was going to tell you that I when I picked up my dress, you were both insensitive and overly sensitive at my being there. It offended me. You told me, “Don’t cry” when I showed emotion while talking to you. Excuse me for finding it difficult to be in your apartment again after so long, the one that your girlfriend now shares with you! You told me, “No kisses” when we hugged goodbye. I wasn’t trying to kiss you. I wouldn’t do that to you or your girlfriend.

Friends don’t do that.

When I called you on Thanksgiving, I had just connected the dots. I’m not stupid.

Your phone didn’t ring. It had me leave a message.

Fuck you.