So not over it
"I'm so over it" became my mantra while I collected many fabulous reasons why I shouldn't love you. Why I don't even care. Why our love was never true. Then yesterday I'm walking to my new job in my new clothes, new hair, new punctuality, and I see you turn around. It wasn't you, because you're 3,289 miles away in Coral Gables, Florida probably thinking about how much I suck. This dude doesn't even look like you, so it must have been a trick of the sun, the light off his face, that expression of surprise and delight. We started slow, we took walks, you gave me an album, I made you a cake. The nail in the coffin was you washing my dishes on that summer night. My knees actually went weak and I sat in the other room, petrified. There were fireworks on the 4th, a sunset on the beach, skinnydipping in the hot tub and still nothing. Inexplicable. Your friend pulled me aside, "You have to make the first move." Terrifying. Late, stuttering, shivering I Like Yous. Then the best two weeks ever in human history. Six months flew by. Midnights at the radio station, dinner parties at our friends' houses, photoshopped pictures of our prehistoric safari, meeting family, exes, professors. My life edged in on us. My writing, my radio show, my fabulous cooking, my section of the newspaper, my volunteer hours, my jobs, my friends, my house, my totally overwhelming brilliance. You faded. Did you know I was always proud of you? That I loved it when you were around? We made lots of plans, then destroyed all of them. We cried on each other, and then separately. You were gone. I didn't know what to do. So I said goodbye. And then that wretched night one week later when we hung out like adults all civilized and understanding. You were so happy. Happier than I'd seen you in months, maybe even a year. But that was when we met. And then I realized it was me. You were so good for me, and I so bad for you. I'm sorry. But none of that means anything when I have to walk to my job in the morning, past you and us. I'm too proud to admit I'm not over it. Maybe that's why I'm pouring my feelings into an empty box on a website two years later and praying you'll read this. So over it.