I checked Instagram today.
More specifically, I checked his Instagram today. I shouldn’t have, but I did. And what I saw took me back. I saw him, and beside him stood long blond hair and a pink dress. His arm around the waist of the girl wearing the pink dress.
This wasn’t the first time I’d seen this image.
Different picture, different date.
Same girl, same feeling.
That’s not me.
That’s not me standing right beside him. That’s not me, and it’s not supposed to be. Not now. Not anymore. But it never was me. Not even before he ended us. I was never on the inside. Before when I had this feeling – the numbness ripping me apart from the inside out, the nausea from staring at the photographs of smiling faces sharing things that I’ll never share with him – it was wrong. Before. It was wrong because it was supposed to be me. It was supposed to be me with whom he shared the world.
The others should have been the outsiders. They should’ve been staring at us from the distance.
But it was always me on the outside looking in. Staring at an image of him – me on the sideline, him playing the game.
I wanted to close the gap between us, I really did.
He never let me in.
I was never the girl in the big picture.
It is right. After. Now. This time. It is right because it isn’t supposed to be me. It is not supposed to be me with whom he shares the world.
I have a dress that same pink color and plenty of pictures of me right beside him. But the one I saw today when I checked his Instagram – that’s not my brown hair. It’s blond. I’m not the girl in the pink dress this time.
It’s not me beside him.
It’s not my place anymore.
It’s not my problem anymore.
And maybe, I’m thankful for that.