It starts—well, it always starts—the same maddening way. Some ridiculous little trigger. A song you weren’t even paying attention to. The smell of that cologne, perfume, whatever it was that still feels like it clings to your hoodie even though you haven’t worn it in months. Or maybe it’s something stupid like… a TikTok clip about “the one that got away” (because those algorithms know everything, don’t they?).

And then, without asking your permission, your brain goes there again:
Was it love? Or… oh God, was it just lust?

You tell yourself not to care. You roll your eyes. You laugh it off like, “Pffft, I’m so over this.” But let’s be real—you’re not. Not really. If you were, you wouldn’t be here, scrolling through yet another article hoping to stumble on that one sentence that finally makes it all click.

I know because I’ve been there—too many nights, honestly, staring at the ceiling, arguing with myself like some kind of courtroom drama playing out inside my skull. The prosecution says it was lust. Infatuation. Hormones on overdrive. But the defense? Oh, the defense drags out every sweet memory like evidence. The way they looked at you that one time. The way their hand fit so naturally into yours, like puzzle pieces that didn’t know they were lost until they found each other.

And the jury? The jury’s useless.
Hung. Every. Single. Time.

See, here’s the thing no one really warns you about: heartbreak isn’t loud. Not always. It doesn’t always slam doors and scream expletives into the void. Sometimes, it’s just this low hum, this gnawing ache that sits in your chest like an unpaid bill you keep forgetting to settle. Some days, you can almost ignore it. Other days? It blindsides you mid-grocery run because you spotted their favorite cereal.

God, it’s exhausting. You think, Maybe I’m just addicted to the idea of them. Maybe it’s just the physical stuff I miss—the spark, the rush, that chemical high. Because lust, well, lust is easy to explain. Lust is biology. It’s dopamine doing cartwheels. Simple. Safe. Dismissible.

But love? Love’s a whole other beast.

Love complicates things. It asks questions. It lingers long after the fire should’ve burned out. It sneaks back into your dreams uninvited, whispering that maybe—just maybe—you were onto something real.

So which was it? Lust… or love?

God, don’t you wish it was easier to tell? Don’t you wish there was some kind of checklist? Like, “If yes to 3 out of 5, congratulations, it was love!” But human hearts aren’t spreadsheets. They don’t do bullet points.

And don’t get me started on the advice people love to toss at you like confetti at a parade.
“Just block them.”
“Focus on yourself!”
“Time heals everything.”

Yeah, sure. And maybe pigs will fly first-class on Delta, too.

The truth is, time doesn’t answer the questions that keep you up at night. It just turns the volume down. But the song keeps playing, faint in the background, like elevator music you can’t quite tune out.

I bet you’ve gone through every memory on replay. (I did.) The good stuff, the bad stuff, the could’ve-beens. You’ve probably analyzed their texts like they were written in hieroglyphics—searching for clues between emojis and awkward punctuation.

But here’s what nobody tells you: clarity doesn’t come from overthinking. You can’t whiteboard your way out of this. You can’t solve it by re-reading old messages until your eyes blur.

And maybe—just maybe—the reason you still feel this pull, this ache, this longing… isn’t because you’re weak, or foolish, or obsessed. Maybe it’s because your heart knows there’s unfinished business. Maybe it’s because you never actually got the real answers you needed to move on, or to fight for it properly.

You know what really messes with your head? The idea that they might be fine. That they’ve moved on. Smiling. Posting. Living their best life while you’re here stuck between “Should I text?” and “I swear I’m over it.”

But hold up. Let’s pump the brakes.

Because here’s a wild thought: what if the way you’re feeling isn’t proof that you’re stuck? What if it’s proof that you’re still capable of caring deeply—and that, my friend, is nothing to be ashamed of.

Listen, lust wants to conquer. Love wants to understand.

Lust is quick, impulsive. It wants the high without the work.
Love… love takes its shoes off at the door. Love sits down and stays a while. It doesn’t rush. It asks how your day was—and actually listens to the answer.

But I get it. You’re afraid. Afraid of being wrong. Afraid of trying again only to get burned twice as hard. Afraid of admitting (even to yourself) that maybe what you had was real enough to be worth a second look.

Or maybe it wasn’t.
Maybe it was the spark without the flame.
Maybe it was a beautiful illusion—and knowing that is exactly what would set you free.

But how do you know? How do you sort out the difference between real love and a really good time?

You can’t guess your way there. You can’t “just feel it out” when your emotions are tangled up like Christmas lights in July. You need… perspective. Space to breathe. A way to untangle the knots without yanking so hard you snap the string.

That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re still reading this even though a part of you wants to shut the laptop and pretend you’re fine.

Because deep down, you don’t want to stay stuck in limbo.
You want truth. And peace.
And maybe—just maybe—you want hope.

That’s exactly why Was it Lust or Love? Why You Really Want Your Ex Back! exists. Not to tell you what to feel. Not to sell you some gimmick or cheap “get your ex back fast” nonsense.

No. This is different.

It’s about giving you the clarity to know whether this is worth fighting for—or finally letting go of—with your head held high.

It’s your roadmap through the mess, your flashlight in the dark. Because you deserve more than guessing games. You deserve answers.

And you deserve to breathe again.