If you’ve landed on this post because you typed “Is he an avoidant?” into Google at 11pm after being ghosted by someone who claimed you were “different” twelve hours earlier, congratulations. You’ve arrived in exactly the right corner of the internet.
I’m not here to hold your hand and sing “love and light.” I’m here because I’ve just sprinted the emotional Tough Mudder that is dating an avoidant, survived it, washed the mud out of my knickers, and now I’m reporting back like a seasoned war correspondent.
Let’s get this out of the way quickly:
I’m not heartbroken.
I’m not crying into a tub of ice cream.
And I’m certainly not writing this because I want him back.
I’m writing it because the pattern matters.
Because if I had found something like this 8 weeks ago, something honest, and written by someone who actually gets it, I would’ve trusted my gut sooner instead of trying to logic my way around someone else’s emotional dysregulation.
And that’s where this story starts:
With me noticing things.
Not feelings, not drama, not me spiralling.
Just noticing.
The little hesitations.
The weird pauses.
The sweetness that felt a bit too perfect.
The “I feel insecure” confessions wrapped in charm.
The first cold shoulder that I explained away because… well, we all have off days, don’t we?
Except avoidants don’t just have off days, they have entire seasons.
This isn’t a victim diary.
This is a map.
A “here’s what it looks like when your intuition is screaming, and why you shouldn’t ignore it.”
Because I didn’t ignore mine.
I heard it.
I felt it.
And even as I gave him the benefit of the doubt, I knew it wasn’t a matter of if he would run, it was just a matter of when.
So let’s walk through the eight weeks.
The charm that hooked me.
The chemistry that felt cinematic.
The dopamine hits.
The dips I tried to ignore.
The sudden distance.
The birthday high.
The final blow.
And the moment I realised the most important thing:
Avoidants don’t leave because you’re not enough.
They leave because you are.
He arrived like most of them do, all effortless confidence and the sort of charm that feels like it’s been practised on a few people before you but you pretend not to notice because, well… it works. He wasn’t loud or showy; he didn’t sweep in with grand gestures . He did it in that subtle way avoidants specialise in, a little emotional breadcrumb here, a compliment there, enough eye contact to make you feel like the only woman in the room, even if the “room” was just a car park at 10pm.
And because I’m not stupid and my intuition has been through more battlefields than NATO, I felt that tiny voice whispering, steady on… something’s off here. But I ignored it. Not because I’m desperate, not because I’m naïve, but because it’s human to want connection, and it’s human to hope that this time the warning bells are just wind chimes.
He mirrored me in all the right places: the conversation flowed, and the chemistry just felt easy. That early stage where they show just enough vulnerability to make you think you’re seeing the “real him.” Spoiler: you’re seeing the carefully curated preview, not the full film.
Still, I let myself enjoy it. The charm wasn’t fake, that’s the maddest part. Avoidants genuinely mean it in the moment. It just has an expiration date stamped somewhere you can’t see yet. But I felt it, that little twist in my gut that said, this is lovely… but it won’t last. I didn’t know when, but I knew it would come. My intuition always knows. It just sometimes lets me have a bit of fun before the lesson lands.
And that’s the truth, he didn’t hook me because I was blind.
He hooked me because I saw the red flag waving…
…and thought, “fine, but let’s see what the flag’s attached to.”
The chemistry was stupidly good, the kind that makes you forget you own a brain. He said the right things, touched my lower back in that way that rewires your central nervous system, and looked at me like he’d just discovered his favourite song. Those early days were warm, safe, intoxicating. I genuinely thought, finally, something easy.
But even then, my intuition sat at the back of the room, arms folded, tapping her foot like, “Sweetheart… something’s off.”
Nothing dramatic. Nothing you could pin to a specific text or moment. Just the tiniest micro glitches.
The throwaway comments.
The faint static in the pauses.
The way he’d say things about “in the future I won’t date anyone with cats” said like a joke, but with that undertone of, I’m planting an exit sign early, just in case.
And I heard it. Not consciously at first, more like my gut tagging files and sliding them into a folder labelled: “He’s not as secure as he pretends.”
I knew, even then, that there was an expiry date somewhere in the distance. I just didn’t know when. And because I’m a reasonable, grown human being who doesn’t go nuclear over a passing comment, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. People say weird things all the time. People have quirks. People get nervous.
But the feeling didn’t go away.
It hummed.
It pulsed.
It kept whispering, “Stay alert.”
It echoed throughout my mind…daily.
And that’s the thing with intuition, it never shouts. It just waits patiently for you to catch up, to connect the dots it recognised weeks early.
The Dopamine Hits – this is the period where everything felt like an emotional high. The conversations were electric, the chemistry palpable, the texting constant but not overwhelming, the laughter, the little touches, the shared jokes and your brain thinks it’s hit jackpot. Every message triggered that rush, that “I’m seen, I’m wanted” hit, almost like a mild addiction. Your body remembers it, your heart latches onto it, and even when the shadow of doubt flickers, your intuition keeps whispering, “Something’s off, but maybe it’s just nerves.”
It’s intoxicating. You feel alive in a way that’s rare and thrilling. And yet, in the back of your mind, that intuition, the gut feeling, the little voice, well it never quite shuts up. It knows there’s an expiry looming, subtle clues dropped here and there, moments of hesitancy or distance. But the dopamine surge is so seductive you give him the benefit of the doubt. You ride the wave, aware and wary, but caught in the exhilaration nonetheless.
And then, almost imperceptibly, the first dip hits. One day, the texts are slower. One evening, the laughter feels just a little more forced. That small edge of distance appears like a shadow on bright sunlight, and your intuition stiffens. “Here we go,” it whispers, quiet but persistent. You notice the subtle shifts, how he hesitates, how a promise takes longer to land, how his eyes don’t quite meet yours the way they did.
It’s a strange tension, your brain remembers the dopamine hit, the warmth and exhilaration, and it fights against the unease your body is already mapping out. You catch yourself rationalising, giving him the benefit of the doubt, telling yourself, “Maybe he’s busy, maybe he’s tired, maybe it’s nothing.” But deep down, that little voice, your gut, knows something is off. You’re aware that the pattern is emerging, that this is exactly what you expected, yet you can’t help but hope it’s just a blip.
Then comes the push-pull, the part that really messes with your head. One moment, he’s close, texting with charm and warmth, making plans, leaning in just enough to give you that hit of connection. The next, he’s distant, slow to reply, vague about seeing you, almost as if he’s testing whether you’ll chase or fold. It’s maddening, because the highs are intoxicating, and the lows make you question yourself.
Your intuition is still there, quietly nudging you: “This isn’t steady. This isn’t safe.” And yet, part of you remembers the spark, the chemistry, the laughter. You catch yourself rationalising the dips, making excuses, hoping it’s a blip, but the pattern repeats, predictable and relentless. It’s not your fault, it’s how he operates. And your gut, thank heavens, knows exactly what’s coming.
Then came the birthday. For a brief moment, it felt like everything had settled into something real. Plans were made, attention was given, and I let myself enjoy it, fully aware, of course, that my gut had been right all along. Even in that sweetness, I could feel the shadow of the inevitable lurking at the edges. He’d drop little hints before, comments that reminded me of my “expiry date,” the subtle reminders that I was never permanent. But I let it slide, because the highs were intoxicating, and who doesn’t want to be seen, celebrated, even if just for a night?
The week that followed was the cruelest part. The affection and words continued, but the distance started creeping back in. Replies became shorter, no further plans in the diary, and I found myself navigating a relationship that existed only in fragments. My gut was screaming, my intuition shouting that the end was near, but still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I told myself it was a phase, a busy week, a momentary drift. But deep down, I knew the final blow was coming, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
And then it hit, the text. Mid-curry. Out of nowhere. He knew I was out, sat with colleagues, eating, laughing, just trying to enjoy a rare night off. And there it was: over. No argument, no discussion, no warning, just cut off like I meant nothing. The timing was deliberate, and that’s what makes it so cruel. Why then? Because he could. Because he wanted to hurt me, or maybe to see what I’d do. Because for him, the power was in the discard, in choosing the exact moment to make someone feel small and exposed.
But here’s the thing – I wasn’t shocked. Weeks of intuition had been whispering that this would happen. And when it did, I didn’t react. I didn’t message him, I didn’t plead, I didn’t crumble. I stayed completely no-contact. I just kept eating. Every last mouthful of curry. He chose the worst moment he could, but he didn’t get to dictate my response or control my grief.
It’s exhausting, yes, but I’m standing. Fully present. Fully me. And while my head is still untangling the absurdity of it all, there’s this tiny, ridiculous satisfaction: I didn’t fall. I didn’t give him the reaction he might have hoped for. I simply kept going, and that’s more than enough.
Because when someone like this is faced with a partner who actually shows up, has boundaries, and lives their own life, it terrifies them. They don’t pull away because of you, or because you did something wrong, they pull away because your presence forces them to face feelings they can’t manage. And that’s the cruel part – the sudden absence, the ghosting, the rug pulled out from under you. It leaves the other person reeling, questioning themselves, wondering what they did. But here’s the thing- it’s not about you, it never was. You were enough, you showed up, you mattered. And recognising that, walking away without losing yourself, is where the power lies.
So that’s where I am now. Sitting with the chaos behind me, the cliff left far below, and a sense of relief in my gut that my intuition saved me. I didn’t crumble, I didn’t chase, I didn’t beg. I just stayed standing, grabbed my dignity, and carried on with my life. And honestly, I’m grateful for that, because if nothing else, it proves that even in the middle of someone else’s chaos, you can still look after yourself and come out the other side with your sense of self intact.
…And yes, I may still glance at a curry menu with slightly more caution than usual, but hey, at least I’m still eating it all, no regrets, no tears, and definitely no return calls 💕
Lottie x
Thirty Something Plus VAT 