Ivanka thought she was different.
Not like those desperate girls who ignored red flags.
Not like those weak women who kept running back to men who treated them like garbage.
No. Ivanka had standards.
Or at least, that’s what she told herself.
Until she found herself at 3 AM, outside an apartment she had no business being at, reapplying her lipstick in the reflection of her phone screen, knowing damn well she should’ve blocked his number months ago.
But here she was. Again.
And tonight, as she stared at his last text—"Come over. I miss you."—she felt that familiar, sickening rush.
That same pathetic flicker of hope that this time, maybe, it would be different.
Maybe he really meant it.
Maybe he’d finally choose her the way she kept choosing him.
Maybe this time, he wouldn’t leave her feeling emptier than before.
So she went.
And for a few hours, she let herself believe the fantasy.
Let herself pretend that the warmth of his body meant more than temporary comfort.
Let herself ignore the sinking feeling in her gut, the quiet knowing that by morning, she’d be right back where she started.
And like clockwork, the unravelling began before she even left his bed.
The way he rolled over, already half-asleep, barely mumbling a goodbye.
The way she had to let herself out, stepping over the same sneakers by the door, feeling the same gut punch of recognition.
She knew this ending. She’d lived it a hundred times before.
But this time, something shifted.
This time, as she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror with smudged mascara and a slightly swollen lip from a slip-up during the “night action” they both had, she truly saw herself for the first time in a while.
Not as the woman she thought she was.
Not as the girl she pretended to be.
But as someone trapped in a cycle,
A cycle she could no longer ignore.
She saw it all…
Every time she swore, “never again.”
Every excuse she made for men who wouldn’t even claim her in public.
Every night she spent waiting instead of walking away.
This was more than bad luck. It was a loop.
And if she didn’t break it,
She already knew how the story ended
Because real change doesn’t happen in grand epiphanies.
It happens in moments like this—when you finally stop lying to yourself.
When you stop making excuses.
When you face the brutal truth of your patterns and decide, once and for all, to break them.
I know this because I did it too.
And I know exactly how fucking hard it is to stop.
But if you’re ready to end the cycle, I want to hear from you.
Hit reply and tell me—what’s the pattern you keep falling for?
The one you know is hurting you, but you can’t seem to break?
Hit reply and tell me. I’m all ears.