From a 24-year-old woman: As an American living in France for the last year, I eventually became curious enough to try Tinder there. In February, I started talking to a French guy who lived an hour away from me. I was nervous about meeting someone in a foreign country, so we became Facebook friends and Skyped before meeting in person. Our first date went well, and we continued to see each other about once a week. This guy was clearly interested in me. He rode the bus for an hour and a half each way, just to meet me for lunch. He texted me every morning to say hello. He even said “Je t’aime” in March, so I thought that he actually loved me.

I hesitated to become attached to him because my visa expired in July. We both knew that our time together was limited. Nevertheless, I started to let myself fall in love with him in April. As I put more effort into our relationship, he suddenly began to pull away. This shift devastated me. He stopped initiating conversations and only sent short responses to my questions. It felt like he lost interest as soon as I finally gained it. After one week of initiating every conversation, I decided to stop contacting him. And you know what? I never heard from him again. No goodbye. No explanation.

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No contact until July — when he liked my Facebook post. And again in September, when he liked my recording of an original song. The subject of that song? Being ghosted. The guy who ghosted me liked the song that I wrote about him ghosting me.

From Chelsea H., a 26-year-old woman: I had been going on dates with a guy for about a month last March and thought there was mutual interest. I even crossed the Potomac into Arlington for him. One Saturday night I was hanging out with a friend in his area and asked if he wanted to go out with us. He responded that he was just going to lay low, his friends weren’t going out, and he was actually binging a show I had recommended to him (“Peep Show” — you’re welcome).

The next morning, I was feeling that it wasn’t a great sign that he didn’t want to hang out when he had no other plans. Since I was in his neighborhood, I shot him a text. As diplomatically as possible, I said I got the sense that he might not be into this, but that he should correct me if I was wrong.

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Braced for rejection, I wondered: Would he confirm my suspicions, halfheartedly brush off my concerns, or, in the best-case scenario, say I had nothing to worry about? What I got instead was far more … unexpected.

After anxiously staring at my phone for four hours, finally, a response: “Happy Easter 🐰”

That was the last message exchanged.

From Elisa Jordana, a 32-year-old woman: I had been dating this guy for three months. He was a comedian, and I was a musician at the time; we would make up jokes and riff on ideas for hours. I figured he really liked me, at least as much as I liked him. When he said he wanted to introduce me to his mother, I was nervous. But he told me she thought I was wonderful.

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I hadn’t slept with him yet, but I figured it was time. When we finally did have sex, I was nervous and it was awkward. Afterward, we went downstairs to the sandwich shop. As we sat there eating our tuna melts and pickles, I blurted out: “So, are we boyfriend and girlfriend yet?”

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Silence.

“Sorry, Elisa, I can’t,” he told me.

And then, with a bit of hesitation, he muttered: “Too many girls think I’m cute.”

Maybe I should’ve calmly asked for clarification, but I knew what he was thinking. He had access to have sex with anyone he wanted. I flipped out and never heard from him again.

He was a friendly ghost, though. We’ve remained Facebook friends, and even though we stopped talking, I’m always caught up to speed on his life. By checking out his social media presence, I had to hand it to him: Many, many women thought he was cute. Just not me anymore.

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From Walter Reed, a 30-year-old man: Andre and I met at a New York nightclub called Secrets. It was an instant connection filled with happy hours, dinners and late-night clubbing.

But something was brewing all along. Soon our connection devolved into shouting matches, drink-throwing and make-up sex. The negativity from his friends and family strained our relationship further, culminating to his grandmother calling me a “gigolo.” “If I see that gigolo in the house, I’m going to call the cops!” she said in a thick Jamaican accent.

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Oh no, she didn’t! A gigolo? I would have rather been called a high-class hooker with a heart of gold.

I still believed in us. We were in love! Yet the more I pushed, the more he avoided me. We no longer hung out. Our communication was reduced to texts, emails and Facebook. I had a better relationship with my bartender.

One day, I turned on my computer and noticed that he hadn’t posted anything on social media. I searched for his name and discovered: We were no longer Facebook friends, much less boyfriends.