My Boyfriend Publicly Humiliated Me On TikTok, Calling Me…

“Call me. We need to talk.” The note said.

Still, there was nothing about why we might need to talk. I am supposed to just not know about the video.

Damage Control and Ghostly Encounters

The TikTok mysteriously disappeared from his account on Thursday night. It was too late, though, as it had already been screen recorded and was making rounds in our friend group.

My phone was blowing up with “Are you okay?” texts from people I haven’t talked to in months. The weekend was a blur of ignoring calls from unknown numbers.

Derrick was using his friends’ phones once he realized I’d blocked him. I jumped every time someone knocked on Amara’s door.

Margaret, from my old community college group chat, sent me screenshots of Derrick’s Instagram stories. They were vague posts about missing someone and “biggest mistake of my life” with sad song lyrics.

It was classic damage control. Sunday night saw 26 missed calls, and Monday morning had 32.

I finally went back to work on Monday. My manager hugged me when I walked in because, apparently, the video had made it to her FYP, too.

She told me to take another day if I needed it. I said no, because I needed normal and I needed to focus on something other than the dumpster fire that was my relationship.

Derrick showed up at the salon during my lunch break. I hid in the supply closet while my coworker told him I wasn’t there.

I heard his voice, that familiar low rumble I used to love, through the door. He sounded tired.

By Tuesday morning, exactly one week since I’d seen the video, the missed call count was at 37. His latest text just said:

“Please.”

I needed to swing by my apartment for my mail. I had a package that needed a signature.

I figured 8:00 a.m. was safe since Derrick usually leaves for work at 7:30. I was wrong.

I unlocked my door, and there he was sitting on my welcome mat. It was the one he gave me that says, “Home is where the Wi-Fi connects automatically.”

He looked up when he heard my keys. The man was a wreck.

He hadn’t shaved and had dark circles under his eyes. He was wearing the same Metallica shirt he’d had on in his Instagram story from two days ago.

When he saw me, he literally crumpled. It wasn’t in a fake dramatic way; it was like his body physically gave out.

He was on his knees with tears immediately streaming. He said my name over and over.

I just stood there with keys still in hand. I felt nothing, then everything, then nothing again.

“Eliana, please. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said those things. I was drunk, the guys were pressuring me, and I never meant any of it. Please just talk to me.” He sobbed.

I cut him off.

“I saw what you really think of me. There’s nothing to talk about.” I said.

I stepped around him like he was a piece of furniture and got my mail. I walked back to my car, and he followed me to the parking lot, still crying and still begging.

I got in my car, locked the doors, and drove back to Amara’s. He called five more times before I even made it across town.

Sinking Feelings and Eight-Page Letters

So that brings us to now. It’s been exactly 8 days, 4 hours, and 22 minutes since I saw that video.

It has been that long since I realized the person I trusted most in the world sees me as a convenient placeholder until something better comes along. I don’t know what happens next.

Part of me—a small, stupid part—misses him. I miss the routine and I miss believing I was loved.

I keep replaying his words from the video: “hideous” and “upgrade.” They were so casual and so cruel.

Three years together, and that’s what I’m worth. I’ll update when there’s more to tell, but for now, I’m just taking it one day at a time.

Thank you for all the support on my last post. It’s been exactly 17 days since I saw that video and 9 days since Derrick showed up crying on my doorstep.

Let me tell you, things have gotten weird. After I left Derrick in the parking lot that morning at 8:43 a.m., I drove straight back to Amara’s place in full zombie mode.

The whole drive, my phone kept lighting up with calls. Derrick had apparently moved on to using his mom’s phone to reach me, which is a special kind of desperate.

When I got back to Amara’s, I just sat in her kitchen staring at the faded “Live, Laugh, Tequila” magnet on her fridge. I couldn’t cry anymore.

It was like my emotions had finally reached their data limit for the month. Amara came home from her shift around 2:00 p.m. and found me in the exact same position, still in my coat.

She just sighed and handed me a White Claw from the fridge. She chose lime, the superior flavor.

She asked if I’d been noticing red flags with Derrick all along but had just been filtering them out. At first, I was defensive.

Derrick and I had a good relationship. He remembered my birthday and he watched The Bachelor with me even though he hated it.

He never complained when my hair clogged the shower drain. The bar is literally in hell these days, and I thought he was clearing it with room to spare.

But then Amara started asking specific questions. She asked if Derrick ever made jokes about my appearance before.

Well, there was that time he said my favorite jeans made me look kind of wide, but in a cute way. When I got highlights last summer, he asked if the salon meant to make them that brassy.

He did have a weird habit of pointing out celebrities he found attractive. They were always the super thin, “no-makeup makeup” types who look nothing like me.

She asked if Derrick supported my goals. He said he was proud when I got promoted last year, but also suggested maybe I shouldn’t take it because the stress might be too much.

When I talked about maybe going back to school someday, he always changed the subject to how expensive it would be. Amara asked if Derrick had equal standards for our relationship.

Thinking about it, not really. If I was 15 minutes late meeting him, I’d get a series of increasingly annoyed texts.

However, he could cancel plans last minute to hang with the boys, and I was supposed to be cool with it. By the time we finished our White Claw, I had this sinking feeling in my stomach.

The TikTok wasn’t some bizarre, out-of-character moment. It was just the first time I’d seen what had been there all along without the filter of wanting to believe we were perfect.

That night, Derrick escalated to a new level. At exactly 9:17 p.m., Amara’s doorbell rang.

We both froze like we’d been caught committing a crime. Through the peephole, there was Derek holding the saddest-looking grocery store flowers I’ve ever seen.

Amara went full mama bear mode. She opened the door just enough to block the view inside and told him I wasn’t there.

I could hear his voice cracking as he begged her to just let him talk to me for five minutes. He said he hadn’t slept in days, he’d lost seven pounds, and he’d do anything to fix this.

After Amara finally got him to leave, she found a handwritten letter he’d slipped under the door. It was eight pages, front and back.

I have to admit, I read it twice. It was a lot, with tear stains on the paper and promises to spend the rest of his life making this up to me.

There were explanations about how he was drunk, how his friends were peer pressuring him, and how he’d been having a bad day at work. It was classic deflection bingo.

But one line actually got to me.

“I said those horrible things because I’m insecure and afraid you’ll realize you’re too good for me.” He wrote.

For about 20 minutes, I actually considered calling him. That’s how messed up my brain was.

He humiliated me publicly, and I was feeling bad for him. Thankfully, Amara’s Wi-Fi chose that exact moment to crash with a classic Thursday night Xfinity outage.

The Epiphany and Boundaries

We couldn’t even stream anything, so we ended up going through old photos on my phone. That’s when I had my first real epiphany.

In literally every picture of Derrick and me together from the past year, I’m looking at him with this big smile. He’s either looking at his phone, or off to the side, or making some stupid face.

There was not a single one where he’s looking at me the way I’m looking at him. How did I never notice that before?

Friday morning brought a new development. My brother Miguel called to tell me that Derrick had shown up at his apartment at 7:00 a.m. asking if he knew where I was.

Miguel, being the overprotective brother he is, told Derrick that if he came by again they’d be having a different kind of conversation. It was dramatic, but I appreciate the sentiment.

By that point, I was actually starting to feel smothered by all of Derrick’s attempts to contact me. It wasn’t romantic; it was uncomfortable.

So, I did something I’d been avoiding. I drafted a text that was simple, direct, and with no room for misinterpretation.

“I need space. Please stop contacting me, my friends, and my family. I’ll reach out when—if—I’m ready to talk.” I sent it at 10:22 a.m.

I immediately turned my phone off for three hours because I couldn’t handle seeing his response. When I finally checked again, there were five paragraphs waiting for me.

The gist was that he understood and he’d respect my boundaries. He said he’d wait forever if that’s what it took.

This was followed immediately by three more texts asking when “forever” might end. He asked if we could please just meet for coffee next week.

So much for respecting boundaries. The weekend was actually peaceful.

Amara’s roommate, Margaret, was out of town visiting her parents, so we had the place to ourselves. We ordered in, did face masks, and watched all three Magic Mike movies—for the plot, obviously.

I went a full 24 hours without checking my phone. It felt like coming up for air after being underwater.

Sunday night, though, things took another turn. I was scrolling through Instagram before bed—a bad habit, I know.

Then I saw it. Derek had posted a video; not just any video, but a public apology to me.

He tagged me in it and everything. It was 4 minutes and 27 seconds of him sitting in his car looking directly at the camera with red-rimmed eyes.

He told everyone who saw that horrible TikTok how sorry he was. He said how much he regrets hurting the most beautiful person, inside and out, that he’s ever known.

He claimed he was learning to be a better man. The comments were a mess.

Some people were praising him for taking accountability. Others were calling him out for making my humiliation about him again.

His buddy Xavier commented:

“Stay strong, bro.” It was as if Derrick was the victim here.

I couldn’t sleep after that. I kept thinking about how even his apology was public.

Even his supposed rock bottom moment was carefully filmed, probably with multiple takes. It was posted at optimal engagement hours: 8:00 p.m. on a Sunday.

Monday morning, I decided I needed to go back to my own apartment. Amara had been amazing, but I couldn’t hide at her place forever.

Plus, her hot water heater had been acting up all weekend. Cold showers in February are not the vibe.

As I was packing up my duffel bag, my phone pinged with a Venmo notification. Derrick had sent me $300.

“For the anniversary dinner we’ll never have.” The note said.

Our three-year anniversary would have been next week. I sent it back immediately, then blocked him on Venmo, too.

The drive back to my apartment felt like going to a job interview I knew I’d bomb. Every red light had me checking my rearview mirror, half expecting to see Derrick’s car pull up behind me.