My Boyfriend Publicly Humiliated Me On TikTok, Calling Me…

The First Green Flag and the Ultimate Betrayal

My boyfriend publicly humiliated me on TikTok, calling me the most hideous girl he’s ever been with before dumping me. So, I disappeared without a word.

This morning, after ignoring 37 missed calls, I opened my door to find him sobbing on his knees. Derrick and I have been together for almost three years.

I met him when I was 21. He was the guy who knew how to fix the garbage disposal when it jammed, the first green flag, or so I thought.

We exchanged Instagrams, started texting, and the rest just kind of happened. The past three years have been mostly good; we had our rhythm.

We watched Netflix documentaries on Thursdays, went to his mom’s for dinner every other Sunday, and took camping trips with his friends in the summer. He always remembered my birthday and actually listened when I talked about my day.

These days, that’s practically unicorn behavior. My last boyfriend before him thought emotional labor was a type of childbirth, so my bar was admittedly on the floor.

Fast forward to this Tuesday. I’m scrolling on my phone during lunch, and my phone dings with a text from my friend Amara.

It’s just a TikTok link with “CALL ME NOW” in all caps. Amara is not the dramatic type; she once texted “slight issue” when her apartment was literally flooding.

I click the link, and there’s Derek. He is at Throwbacks, that dive bar his buddies always hang at on Mondays.

I could tell by the neon Budweiser sign behind him that flickers every seven seconds; we counted once while waiting for our order. He’s clearly six beers deep, red-faced, with his arms slung around his friend Xavier.

Someone off camera asks:

“So rate your girlfriend, bro?”

The look on his face changed. It wasn’t his normal smile; it was this weird smirk I’d never seen before, like he was about to let everyone in on some private joke.

“Eliana? Honestly, probably the most hideous girl I’ve ever been with. Like a four on a good day.” He said.

The bar erupts, and someone yells:

“Savage!”

Derrick just laughs and keeps going.

“But she cooks really good enchiladas and never complains when I go out with the boys, so I keep her around. Low maintenance, you know?” He continued.

Then someone asks if he’s worried I’ll see the video.

“Nah, she doesn’t even know what TikTok is. Besides, thinking about upgrading soon anyway. Too much baggage.” His response was.

The timestamp showed it was posted at 11:43 p.m. Monday night. I was at home doing a freaking clay mask and texting him goodnight.

The video had 17,000 views. I sat there in the break room just staring at my phone.

I didn’t cry and I didn’t scream; I just felt this weird cold feeling spreading through my chest. Three years together, and this is what he actually thinks of me.

The Disappearing Act

The night before, he’d been at my place, and we’d made dinner together. We talked about maybe moving in when my lease ends in August.

He’d kissed me goodbye and said:

“Love you, babe.” He said it like it was nothing.

Apparently, 12 hours later, I was the hideous girlfriend he was planning to dump. I texted Amara back:

“Coming over after work. Don’t tell anyone.”

Then I muted all notifications, put my phone in my bag, and somehow made it through three more client appointments without completely breaking down. Autopilot is weird like that.

After work, I didn’t go home. I went straight to Target and bought a cheap duffel bag filled with essentials: a toothbrush, deodorant, phone charger, and a couple of t-shirts.

I spent $47.16. The receipt is still in my wallet for some reason.

I drove to Amara’s apartment complex at 6:13 p.m. I sat in the parking lot for 20 minutes just staring at nothing, playing that video over and over in my head.

I keep thinking about all the times Derrick told me I looked beautiful. I thought of when I dressed up for his company Christmas party, or when I was sick with the flu last winter.

Three weeks ago, we were at the beach, and I was so self-conscious about wearing a bikini. All lies, or just things you say when you’re with someone.

Amara didn’t ask questions when I showed up. She just pointed to her couch bed and offered two glasses of the cheap Rosé we drank in college.

“What’s the plan?” She asked.

That’s when I decided I’m not giving him the satisfaction of a breakup conversation. There will be no tears, no begging, and no dramatic confrontation he can tell his bros about later.

I’m just going to disappear. We spent that night making a checklist.

I blocked Derrick on everything: phone, Instagram, and Twitter. I changed all my passwords because he knew most of them.

I called out from work for the rest of the week. I told only my mom where I really am.

By midnight, Derrick had texted seven times. It was normal stuff at first.

“Hey, what do you want for dinner?” He asked.

“And you still coming over tonight?” He followed up.

By morning, the tone changed.

“Where are you and why aren’t you answering?” He demanded.

By afternoon, he’d called 12 times. There was not one mention of the TikTok, not one apology, and nothing.

I stayed at Amara’s Wednesday and Thursday. I binged all of Love Island, as trash TV is surprisingly therapeutic when your life is imploding.

I cried in the shower so Amara wouldn’t hear. We ordered too much Uber Eats because neither of us felt like cooking.

Friday morning, Amara went to my apartment to grab more of my clothes. She said Derrick had clearly been there.

There were empty energy drink cans on the counter and his jacket was thrown over my couch. He’d left a note taped to my door.