On a Saturday afternoon, after some empowering self-discovery, I am unstoppable. I can feel it in every inch of my being and I feel as though, when I walk outside, I stand a little taller and my smile shines a little brighter. Nothing is holding me back. I am over you.
On a Saturday evening, when I’m sharing drinks and a laugh with another, I am reborn. As he leans in for a kiss, I know that his lips, and mine, are all that matter in this moment. You are nothing to me because I am over you.
On a Saturday night, when I’m lying in his arms, I note that he chose the same side of the bed as you. My mind takes inventory of all the ways he is not you: his smell is not yours, his hand does not curl around mine the way yours does, and his breath does not send shivers down my spine like your deep exhales do. But I’m with him, so I must be over you.
On Sunday morning, as I shove my sheets into the wash, hoping to rid them of his scent, I think of how yours brought me such comfort. I breathe deeply into my pillow, hoping that there is something left of you lingering. There is nothing left of you. Am I not over you?
On Sunday night, as I turn down the sheets and dim the lights, I think of you. I think of every moment we ever spent together, every word you ever said, every kiss we ever shared, and every time you held me in your arms. As the tears start to fall, I know that I am not over you.
On Monday morning, when I see you, my heart beats a little faster. Your smile reminds me of what it felt like to not feel this longing, this sting. For the rest of the day, I will cross my fingers, praying to whoever is out there, that we might run into each other. Maybe then you will see that I am not over you.
On Monday evening, as we part ways, I pretend to be indifferent. I hear your voice, though I pretend not to. Every ounce of power in my body prevents me from looking back, not even once. If I do, you might see that I am not over you.