The messages start flooding in before you’ve even finished deleting the photos. One from your best friend. Another from that one friend who never quite knew what to say, but says it anyway. The group chat lights up like it’s Christmas Eve and your heartbreak is the tree everyone’s gathering around.
It’s weird how quickly people mobilise. Someone sends a meme. Someone else offers to “pull up.” You stare at your phone, trying to decide if you want noise or silence. Either way, the chat’s already decided for you. Because after every breakup, the group chat becomes its own little stage and we all play a role.
Funny how that happens.
The Crisis Manager
Every group has one. The person who treats heartbreak like a project plan. They send Google Calendar invites for “healing brunch.” They book the spa before you’ve even started crying. They text in bullet points:
- Block him.
- Delete photos.
- Breathe.
They mean well. They’re the ones who show up at your door with matcha and a to-do list. “We’re gonna get through this,” they say, in the same tone you’d use to announce an upcoming audit.
You love them for it, though. Because in the middle of emotional chaos, having someone act like your breakup is an administrative problem feels… stabilising. Even if you don’t follow their plan, the structure itself is comfort.
Still, you can’t help thinking not everything can be scheduled.
The Meme Medic
Pain? Quick. Send a meme.
The Meme Medic’s first response isn’t empathy, it’s a screenshot. Some relatable TikTok captioned, “When you realise he was just an NPC in your story.” They weaponise humour the way doctors use antiseptic it stings, but it sterilises.
Their texts come rapid-fire. No punctuation. All lowercase. “he’s gonna see ur glow up and cry lol.” You laugh through tears, because that’s their gift turning ache into irony.
Underneath the chaos, though, there’s wisdom. The Meme Medic understands that laughing at your pain doesn’t erase it; it just makes it lighter to hold.
The Historian
Every chat has one person who remembers everything. They’re like the emotional archivist of your friend circle.
“Oh, you mean the same guy who said he doesn’t believe in birthdays?” they’ll say, scrolling up to an old message from 2022 as if presenting evidence in court.
You didn’t ask for the flashback, but it’s useful. The Historian brings perspective they remind you of patterns, the way you tend to fall for the same type of charm and the same set of excuses.
Sometimes it feels harsh, but later you’ll thank them. Because healing starts where denial ends, and they hold the receipts.
The Philosopher
“I think this is happening for you, not to you.”
Ah yes. The one who reads Rumi and drinks oat milk. Their voice notes sound like TED Talks for the heartbroken. They talk about “growth,” “cycles,” and “self-alignment.” And somehow, even though you’re rolling your eyes, a part of you starts believing them.
They remind you that heartbreak is universal, that pain is proof of being alive. You don’t know whether to hug them or mute them for twelve hours.
But in the quiet later, their words stick. Not because they’re profound, but because they’re right.
The Spy
You said you were done, but The Spy never got the memo.
They know where your ex went last weekend. They’ve checked the new follower list. They might even send screenshots of an Insta story with a cryptic, “Is that a new haircut?”
You should probably tell them to stop. You don’t. Because you want to know, even if you shouldn’t. The Spy operates at the blurry line between loyalty and obsession, and you can’t deny there’s a thrill in knowing you’re still being watched, even indirectly.
Eventually, you’ll both detox. But for now, The Spy’s little updates are the digital version of scratching a bruise.
The Quiet One
They don’t say much. Maybe just a single message: “You okay?” No emojis. No advice. Just space.
Their silence used to bother you. Now, it feels like a blanket. Some people don’t fill the room they hold it. The Quiet One listens more than they speak, and that’s what makes their presence grounding.
When you send them a long paragraph at 2 a.m., they respond hours later with, “That sounds really hard.” It’s not performative. It’s peace.
Sometimes, the kindest messages are the ones that don’t try to fix anything.
The Rebound Recruiter
“Okay, hear me out there’s this person you have to meet.”
They mean well. Kind of. The Rebound Recruiter believes the cure for heartbreak is distraction preferably in the form of someone taller, funnier, and maybe a little emotionally unavailable.
They’re the first to drag you to a party or download dating apps “just to look.” It’s chaos wrapped in love. And while you might not be ready, their optimism is contagious.
Because deep down, what they’re really saying is: You still have spark left.
The Mirror
This one’s rare. The friend who doesn’t tell you what to do, or make jokes, or preach. They just reflect things back at you.
When you say, “I feel stupid for missing him,” they ask, “Why stupid?”
When you say, “I just want to be loved,” they say, “You already are.”
Talking to them feels like holding a mirror to your own heart uncomfortable at first, then necessary. Because somewhere between their questions, you start hearing your own voice again.
And that’s when healing really begins.
The You
Because, of course, you’re someone in someone else’s chat.
Maybe you’re the voice of reason in one group and the chaos agent in another. Maybe you’re the one saying, “You deserve better,” while secretly scrolling through your own old messages. Maybe you send memes and essays, because pain makes people multitask.
We’re all shapeshifters online. Our roles depend on the day, the mood, the heartbreak’s temperature. That’s what makes these chats oddly human the way grief gets processed through jokes, timestamps, and badly timed GIFs.
The Unsent Message
At some point, the chat quiets. The notifications slow. The memes fade.
You find yourself typing a long message you’ll never send not to the ex, but to the friends who held you in pixels and patience.
It’s something like: Thanks for staying when I was messy. Thanks for reminding me who I was when I forgot. You delete it, obviously. Too sentimental.
Instead, you send a sticker. A little heart or a thumbs-up. Because sometimes, that’s all that needs saying.
The group replies instantly. As always.
