I appreciate a well-executed revenge narrative as much as the next person. I will gleefully rewatch Gone Girl, meticulously analyse Villanelle’s methods, and momentarily entertain the idea of orchestrating a decade-long reckoning. However, in practice? The effort. The admin. The logistics. I would much rather take a nap.

There’s a peculiar kind of emotional limbo you find yourself in when the idea of reaching out to an ex crosses your mind, not because something was toxic or bitter, but simply because a small, wistful part of you wonders: What if? Recently, I was standing right on that ledge. No drama, no anger, just a quiet curiosity about a past connection that, in a parallel universe, might have been the “forever” kind of thing.

Let’s start with a little truth serum: the notion of a “best friend”, one singular soulmate who completes you, your ride-or-die, your one true confidante, is a charming fiction we were sold alongside fairytales, Happy Meal toys, and the false hope that mortgage rates would be kind by our thirties.

There’s a quiet kind of power in a woman whose life doesn’t hinge on anyone else’s presence, whose world remains rich and full, rain or shine, solo or partnered. You are that woman. You wake up each morning and your purpose is served, your ambitions are unfolding, your joys are yours. A man might enter your narrative, but he doesn’t rewrite your story. You’re not waiting for someone to shape you, complete you or fill any gaps, because you’re already whole. That’s the essence of being the upgrade.