My Boyfriend Publicly Humiliated Me On TikTok, Calling Me…

Violation and a New Look

My apartment building was Derrick-free when I arrived. My neighbor, Mrs. Rogers, nodded at me in the hallway like I hadn’t been gone for over two weeks.

My plants were all dead. Rest in peace to my supposedly impossible-to-kill snake plant.

The air smelled stale and slightly like the Indian takeout I’d forgotten in the fridge. It felt both strange and familiar, like putting on jeans that don’t quite fit anymore.

And then I saw them. There were Post-it notes everywhere.

On my bathroom mirror: “I miss your smile.” On my fridge: “Remember our first here?”

On my TV: “Our Netflix queue misses you.” On my bedside table: “I can’t sleep without you.”

I stood there in shock, slowly realizing what had happened. Derrick still had the spare key I’d given him last year.

He’d been in my apartment while I was gone. My skin instantly crawled.

I checked all the closets, under the bed, and behind the shower curtain. I was half convinced he might be hiding somewhere.

He wasn’t, but the violation of my space felt just as creepy. I called my landlord immediately and explained the situation.

He agreed to change my locks the next morning. Then, I systematically went through my apartment, removing every single Post-it note and ripping them into tiny pieces.

It was petty, maybe, but absolutely satisfying. That night was my first one back in my own bed, and I won’t lie; it was weird.

I kept waking up expecting to feel Derrick’s weight on the mattress. My brain hadn’t caught up to the reality that we were over.

Tuesday morning, I was making coffee when someone knocked on my door. My heart stopped for a second before I remembered Derrick’s key wouldn’t work anymore.

It wasn’t Derrick; it was Xavier. Xavier, who had been in that TikTok video laughing along while Derrick called me hideous.

Xavier, who I’d been friends with before I even met Derek. He had apparently come as Derrick’s ambassador.

He looked uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot in the hallway. He started with small talk about the weather—seriously—before finally getting to the point.

He said Derrick was in a really bad place and just wanted five minutes to explain himself. I asked Xavier if he remembered laughing in that video.

He had the decency to look ashamed. He said he was drunk and just going along with the guys.

“He didn’t mean any of it, Eliana. You know how guys talk when they’re together.” He hit me with this gem.

“I don’t want to be with someone who talks like that with his friends, drunk or sober. I don’t want to wonder what he says about me when I’m not around. I don’t want to be with someone who needs a public meltdown and a friendship intervention to realize he values me.” I replied.

I thanked Xavier for coming by and told him I hoped Derrick would feel better soon. Then, I closed the door.

Last night, I went through my phone and unfollowed Derrick on every platform we were still connected on. I took down the photos of us from my apartment walls.

I packed up the hoodie he always left at my place and the Xbox controller he used when he came over. I put them in a box in my closet, not ready to return them yet, but not wanting to see them either.

Then, I ordered myself dinner from that place Derrick always complained was too spicy, but that I secretly loved. I ate it while watching The Last of Us, which Derrick refused to watch because he doesn’t like zombie shows.

I used the fancy bath bomb my mom got me for Christmas that I’d been saving for a special occasion. Around midnight, my phone lit up with a text from a number I didn’t recognize.

“It’s Derek. Please don’t block this number. I just need to know one thing: did those three years mean anything to you? Because they were everything to me.”

I stared at those words for a long time. Three years.

Three years of inside jokes, holiday dinners, and lazy Sunday mornings. Three years of building a life I thought we’d share forever.

And also, three years of small criticisms dressed as jokes. Three years of walking on eggshells around his moods.

It was three years of making myself smaller to make him comfortable. I didn’t reply; I just added the number to my blocked list and turned off my phone.

This morning, I woke up and did something I haven’t done in two and a half weeks. I made a plan for me.

It wasn’t a reaction to Derek or a hiding strategy. It was just a normal day for myself.

But as I was heading out to grab coffee, I saw something that stopped me cold. Derrick’s profile picture on Instagram had changed.

It was a photo of us from last summer at his cousin’s wedding. My head was on his shoulder, and both of us were smiling.

It shouldn’t matter and it shouldn’t affect me at all, but it did. I’ll update again when there’s more to tell.

For now, I’m taking it day by day and remembering what my grandma always said. Sometimes the trash takes itself out.

The Shredding of the Past

I wasn’t planning on updating so soon, but the past week has been a lot and I need to process. It’s been exactly 32 days since I saw that video.

That is one month of rebuilding my life without someone who I thought was my future. Honestly, some days are better than others.

The weirdest thing happened last Saturday. I was at Target, my emotional support store, picking up some new sheets.

I finally decided to get rid of the gray ones Derrick always said brought out the blue in his eyes. Gag.

I was debating between sage green and terracotta when I noticed a woman staring at me from the end of the aisle. At first, I thought maybe I had something on my face or toilet paper stuck to my shoe.

It wouldn’t be the first time. But then she walked over, looking super uncomfortable.

“Are you the girl from Derrick’s TikTok?” She asked.

My stomach instantly knotted up. It’s one thing to be humiliated online, but it’s another to be recognized by strangers at Target on a random Saturday while wearing no makeup and yesterday’s messy bun.

Before I could even respond, she launched into this awkward apology. She said she’d been one of the people who commented something mean on the original video.

She said she felt terrible after seeing Derrick’s public apology and realized how wrong cyberbullying is. Those were her exact words.

I just stood there clutching my terracotta sheets. The decision was made by panic, apparently.

While the stranger had her character development moment in the HomeGoods section, I finally found my voice. When she finally stopped talking, I managed to speak.

“Thanks. It’s fine. Good talk.” I said.

I speed-walked to checkout. I sat in my car for 20 minutes afterward with the AC blasting, even though it was only 62 degrees outside.

That’s when it hit me. I’m not just Eliana anymore to some people; I’m “the girl from the TikTok.”

My humiliation has become my identifier. That realization made me angry in a way I hadn’t felt before.

I wasn’t just sad-angry like I’d been for weeks. This was pure, energizing, “get-shit-done” angry.

Sunday morning, I woke up at 6:13 a.m. I couldn’t sleep, so I made a list in my notes app.

Number one: cut my hair. I always wanted to try a lob, but Derrick liked it long.

Number two: join that kickboxing class Amara keeps talking about. Number three: finally apply for that certificate program I’ve been putting off.

Number four: redecorate my bedroom with no more “masculine-friendly” color scheme. Number five: download a dating app.

By 11:00 a.m., I’d already crossed off number one. I walked into Supercuts without an appointment, living dangerously, and chopped off seven inches of hair.

The stylist kept asking if I was sure, if I needed more time to think about it, or if someone had talked me into it. I told her:

“Nope. Just needed a change.”

She didn’t need to know I was mentally naming each snip of the scissors after something Derrick had said to me over the years.

“You’d look better with more defined eyebrows.” Snip.

“No guy wants a girl who eats more than him.” Snip.

“Your laugh is kind of loud sometimes.” Snip.

When she spun me around to see the final result, I barely recognized myself in a good way. My neck felt lighter, my head felt lighter, and hell, my whole being felt lighter.

I posted a selfie on Instagram when I got home. It was just me with my new hair, sunlight from my kitchen window, and a caption: “New month, new me.”

Within an hour, it had 87 likes, including from Xavier and two of Derrick’s other friends. Petty satisfaction, maybe, but I’ll take the small wins.

Monday brought item number two on my list. I dragged myself to Amara’s kickboxing studio at an ungodly hour, convinced I’d make a fool of myself.

The instructor, Margaret—coincidentally the same name as Amara’s roommate—kept us moving so fast I didn’t have time to feel self-conscious. By the end, I was drenched in sweat and my arms felt like overcooked spaghetti, but I also felt strangely powerful.

I checked my phone after class to find three missed calls from unknown numbers. It was Derrick’s new burner phone tactic.

There was also one text from Xavier asking if we could talk sometime. I left him on read, as I was not ready for that conversation yet.

Tuesday, I finally tackled item number three and applied for that digital marketing certificate I’ve been considering for ages. Derrick always said it was a waste of money since I already have a stable job.

It took me 43 minutes to fill out the application and another 20 to write the short personal statement. It took about 3 seconds to hit submit before I could overthink it.

I had a mini panic attack immediately after, wondering if I was making a huge mistake. I called my mom, who talked me down in her usual way—half encouragement, half “I don’t understand why you’re complicating your life but I support you anyway.”

The Meltdown and the Guard Dog

Wednesday was when things got intense. I was at the grocery store when my phone started blowing up with texts from Amara.

“Call me now. Derek is on Instagram Live. He’s talking about you. It’s bad.”

I abandoned my cart in the middle of the cereal aisle—sorry, underpaid grocery store workers—and ran to my car to watch the train wreck. Sure enough, there was Derek, clearly drunk at 2:00 p.m. on a Wednesday.

He was red-faced and slurring, talking directly to the camera about how he’d lost the love of his life and didn’t know how to go on. The comments were rolling in fast.

Mostly, people were telling him to get help or turn off the live, but he just kept going. He was reading some comments aloud and ignoring others.

Then he said something that made my blood freeze.

“I know she’s watching this. Eliana, I’m coming over tonight. We need to talk this out. I’m not taking no for an answer anymore.” He said.

I immediately called Amara in full panic mode. She offered to come stay with me, but I ended up calling my brother Miguel instead.

He’s closer to my apartment and, frankly, more intimidating if Derrick actually showed up. Miguel arrived at 5:30 p.m. with his girlfriend Tanya and enough overnight stuff for a week.

He told me not to argue; they were staying until this dude gets the message. He made himself at home on my couch, connected his Nintendo Switch to my TV, and proceeded to act like this was all totally normal.

By 8:00 p.m., I’d almost convinced myself Derrick’s threat was just drunk talk. By 9:00 p.m., I was starting to relax.

By 9:47 p.m., the doorbell rang. Miguel answered while Tanya and I stood back.

I could hear Derrick’s voice, slurred and emotional, demanding to see me. Miguel’s responses were low and calm.

I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear. After about five minutes, I heard my door close.

Miguel came back looking annoyed but calm. He said Derrick had finally left after Miguel convinced him this wasn’t a good time—understatement of the year.

He also mentioned that Derrick looked rough and smelled like he’d bathed in Jack Daniels. I slept terribly that night, jumping at every sound outside my window.

I kept thinking about how different things were just five weeks ago when I still believed Derrick was the one. Back then, I still thought I knew him.

Thursday morning, I woke up to a text from a number I didn’t recognize.

“This is Derrick’s mom. I’m worried about him and don’t know what to do. He won’t eat, barely sleeps, and lost his job yesterday for showing up drunk. I know you don’t owe him anything, but please call me.”