We met in a frozen yogurt shop. He was drunk. I was smitten. The beginning to a terribly predictable movie, one would think.

And I did. I spent years romanticizing it: how right away, I wanted him. And how by total chance, we met again 6 months later. Pure accident. Clearly, it was serendipity. Clearly, we were meant to be.

Turns out, no. Serendipity is just a mediocre movie with John Cusack. Whatever happened to me was not penned by a frustrated screenwriter. It just…happened.

When you fall for someone so painfully out of reach, you’ll convince yourself returned love will eventually come.

Something will come. Or someone will cum. It’s all relative. Right? He kisses you with an open mouth and texts you about your smile, and you relax into the fictional romcom you’ve crafted. It’s going to happen. You can feel it.

And your gut has never been wrong. All this time, it’s never been wrong.

Until it is. Because it is.

He’ll say something about your laugh and that you’re his best friend. You’ll sort of understand how being stabbed feels. But not really. Your melodramatic heartache can’t be compared to a real stabbing.

But fuck, it hurts.

Fuck, it stings and you spend sleepless nights trying to find something to soothe.

But it’s always him. Always him, the problem and the resolution.